Breathing Again
by Blue McLain
Summary: Sequel to 'Breathing Space': After dying side by side, how do you take up a life you thought you lost? M/R slash
1. And now I do want you to know

It's done! After what felt like years it's finally done!

For those who don't know: this is the sequel to 'Breathing Space'. What happens 'Breathing Again' follows right after the first part, so you might want to read it first.

And once again, thanks to the wonderful KittyBits for helping me with the plot, encouraging me and killing mistakes the best she could. All mistakes left are my own.

This is Slash, just so you know.

But anyway, I hope you'll have fun!

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><p>You open your eyes and the first thing you notice is white. Blinding whiteness, everywhere around you.<p>

You blink and the second thing you notice is warmth. Not the dry heat you remember, the air that burnt your lungs with every taken breath. This warmth is actually… well, it is _warm_ and it feels good. Not too hot and not too cold, and it just feels right. Surreal but right.

The third thing you notice is silence. And that silence is deafening. It is absolute. There is nothing but silence, and it seems so ironic when you think about how loud exactly this silence is to you. You almost want to try and keep your ears shut just to block it out somehow. Which is ridiculous, of course. How would you want to turn off silence? How would you want to make it any more silent than it already is?

You can't. It is that simple.

And for a terrifying moment you are scared. So unbelievably scared. You don't feel your body, you don't feel pain, there is nothing – just fear and silence and warmth and whiteness. You are scared that this moment will pass and that the next moment will come and that you still won't feel anything. You are so scared that you really might have died.

…_'re not 'llowed to die._

And with that, something in you just clicks, you don't know what it is – but it works, and with a heartbeat like a drum beat the world comes crashing down on you.

The blinding whiteness dissolves into a white ceiling and a lamp that sends off cold fluorescent light (which is reflected by white walls, probably). Your body makes its way back to your consciousness and feels heavy, and the warmth comes from a blanket draped around you up to your chest. The silence disappears completely – now there is your own raspy breathing, the the beeping of a heart rate monitor connected to your right forefinger and a tiny recurring metallic clicking noise.

And you feel pain. It simply hurts everywhere, and for a split second, you think, it is almost wonderful. Because when it hurts, it means you are probably still alive.

Your chest hurts and your lungs hurt and breathing itself hurts. You have a nasal cannula under your nose and it makes it a bit easier. For a moment, you try to just breathe while staring at the ceiling and blinking to come back to your senses. Come on. It cannot be that hard, pull yourself together.

But it is hard. You are tired and your eyes fall shut time and again. The soft clicking lulls you back to sleep and you want to give in and just float away once more.

"-eid?"

There is something in the back of you mind that won't allow you to doze off again, though. It fights for attention and it is the only thing that makes your eyelids flutter, because you want to open them and they want to remain closed. Your head dips to the left a little and you blink while you try to focus, eyes settling on to your hand. At least, you think it is _your_hand. It is pale enough to be your hand and it is close enough, too, and it looks like it belongs to you.

Except for… oh, you don't know. Something seems off. Something is not right. But what? You move your fingers and it hurts a little. A muscle in your face twitches and the additional oxygen is somewhat cold when you breathe it in. It takes you entirely too long to realize it, but then you get it and it sends a chill down your spine.

There is a needle in the back of your hand.

The world came crashing down on you mere moments ago, and in an instant it shifts and tilts and you feel a whole new kind of dizziness. There is a needle in the back of your hand. Your head starts spinning and you clench your fist and it hurts because _there __is __a__ needle __in __the __back __of __your __hand_! There has never been a needle in the back of your hand.

"Sweetie?"

Never.

Morgan is always there to watch over you and to make sure that this doesn't happen. He protects you from your past as good as he can when you cannot do it yourself, and he takes care of you whether you want him to or not. He always did. But not now, not this time. Because while you obviously are snatched away from the jaws of death, maybe Morgan has not been that lucky and will never be around again to make sure there won't be a needle in the back of your hand.

The clicking noise dies away and the beeping of your heart rate monitor speeds up as does your breathing. Your movements are not exactly slow but jerky and stiff. Tubes block your arm and you have to struggle to lift it. When your fingers reach the patch that keeps the needle in place, almost touching it (except for the pointer with the heart rate monitor to it), there is another hand, a foreign hand covering yours.

You can… not think.

You cannot think. You register shiny dark red fingernails and a ring with a big blue stone or a flower, and you shove that hand away. Whatever it takes, you will get rid of that needle. You have to. You don't want to… please, not again, just…

"Reid, everything's alright, no one's gonna hurt you." The voice is high and soft and familiar, sometimes reminding you of hot chocolate with a marshmallow on top.

But it is not about getting hurt, it is about… oh please, no. _No_. Your eyes sting with desperation.

A second other hand appears, still with dark red nails, and holds your left hand. Your own nails scrape across the foreign skin. A third hand emerges from the other side of your bed and grasps you right arm, the grip firmer than on your left. Both your shoulders touch the mattress again. You stare at the ceiling, breathing hard. It hurts and you know you should slow it down but you can't.

You make a sound, something between a frustrated cry and a huff and a sob. "Take it off…" This has to be your voice. It sounds hoarse and scratchy, but who else would say what you just heard? "Take it off, please, I don't want it, I don't want it, just – "

"Reid, now calm down!" It is not only a third hand but a third voice as well. Strong. Assertive. Just like its grip. You have known it for years and you know that you can trust the person whom it belongs to.

Right now, though, you don't care – Morgan has not been here and he is the only one… he is the only one. You try to free your arms, and it takes both hands on your left and only one hand on your right to hold you in place. The blanket slips and your legs jerk. A sharp pain shoots from your knee right to the back of your head. It doesn't stop your attempt.

"Don't force them to sedate you." The words are spoken calmly but they sound sharp nonetheless.

A last jolt makes the bed beneath you shake and you turn your head without seeing anything. "Take it _off_!," you hiss through gritted teeth, nearly screaming, and for a second the whiteness seems to return. You can feel your eyes start to roll in the back of your head and it makes the skin between your shoulders crawl. Then, suddenly, all of that is gone and things snap into focus and you realize it is Hotch who is standing there next to you, holding your right arm just firm enough to not make it bruising.

You can trust him. Trusting him has saved your life more than once and he has proven to be worth it. He wouldn't do anything to deliberately harm and you know that. You can trust him and you _know_ that. So do it. _Trust_ him!

"Please," you whisper, your head lying heavily on the hospital pillow. Please help me, please don't do that to me again, just please, Hotch. If your expression doesn't give you away, your voice certainly does. Pathetic.

But you cannot do this alone, not with Hotch against you. Though he will surely understand, because sooner or later Hotch always gets what you mean, it is different with him. You have never been able to be as open with him as you are with Morgan. With anyone. Only Morgan.

Morgan.

Something in Hotch's face softens, it won't quite become a smile but rather something similar to sympathy and subtle protectiveness. His grip loosens a little and feels now almost soothing against your arm. The hands around your left squeeze your fingers in a comforting way.

"There's nothing you have to worry about," Hotch says in a calm voice and nods his head in a small movement towards your drip. "It's just normal saline. You suffered from moderate dehydration and they needed to get you hydrated again. You know about these things better than I do. Now calm down before they have to change it." His fingers slide across your upper arm and then they are gone as Hotch is standing upright again.

Your heartbeat is strong and a little too fast, and Hotch seems somewhat distant now while you are staring up at him with tiredly burning eyes. Still, you are grateful to such an extent that you don't even know where to start. So you don't start and Hotch doesn't expect you to. Your slowed down breathing has to be enough for now.

"We wouldn't let them touch you more than necessary. Have a little faith in us, Sweetie, huh?" The voice comes from your left again and you turn your head and you recognize Penelope, sitting in one of those horrible hospital chairs.

"Garcia," you murmur, feeling exhaust and strangely relieved to see her, and her smile brightens even more, lips just as dark red and shiny as her fingernails. Both her hands still hold yours, carefully and protectively, and two or three fresh scratches mark her skin from the wrist down to the knuckles. You wouldn't have fought her off this much had you known it was Garcia, you think. "'m sorry for that," you croak.

"Oh, that?" She looks down and waggles her fingers. "It's nothing, don't worry about it. A pinch of pixie dust and a blueberry muffin and everything's fine again, you'll see."

The corners of your mouth turn upwards in a winded smile and the room falls silent again, for what seems probably longer than it really is. You lift your right hand, the one Garcia is not holding, and you put it on your chest, almost unconsciously. It is ridiculous and silly, but the pressure on your chest feels alien and unpleasant and in your hazy mind you think that, maybe, you can lift it somehow. Stupid. You of all people should know better.

It seems as if something heavy is sitting on your upper body, it does ever since you have woken up in that basement next to Morgan. Now, breathing is easier, though, and you know that the discomfort is only a temporarily physical reaction to all that has happened.

Hopefully, it isn't as bad for Morgan as it is for you. Your thumb moves in slow circles over your breastbone and you try deep and calming breaths, listening to the already slightly annoying beeping and feeling your chest expand and contract every time you inhale and exhale. The light is too bright for you and you close your eyes, several muscles in your face twitch. Your eyebrows, your lids, a muscle in your cheek.

You let Garcia hold your hand, remembering that this case required her at the coalface due to some circumstances and too much technical lingo to identify right now.

A headache starts somewhere between your temples and your hairline like your head is suddenly not big enough anymore for everything in it. You can hear Hotch pushing back his chair, and you think that it is really a good thing that you haven't been alone when you woke up. Although it feels strange somehow – you would have thought Garcia would stay with… with Morgan.

Morgan.

Why isn't she with Morgan?

Before you even know what you are doing, your eyes fly open and you choke on your next breath. How could you forget about Morgan? You prop yourself up on your elbows, hand sliding out of Garcia's grip, and your fingers find your cannula. Garcia is supposed to be with Morgan, everyone knows that, it is a given, always was. But she isn't, she is with you and you are in a hospital, although you were in a basement together with him.

You have to… well, what? Find him? Rescue him? Please. You don't even know, but you have to do something. There has to be some sort of logic behind all that, you are sure of that – and maybe that is why you don't fight all that much when Hotch and Garcia force you to lay down again.

"Would you _please_ stop that?" Hotch asks and the words sound stressed out to the point of weariness. Actually, his tie is crocked the slightest way, his suit is wrinkled and he has a strange glint in his eyes. You still fiddle with the nasal cannula and he grabs a hold of your hand. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

Without any other attempt to fight you let your hand sink and lift your gaze to meet his. "Where's Morgan?" you ask him right away – as right away as it still can be – and a blaze of light shines behind Hotch's eyes, like a sudden unexpected spark in the darkness.

He exhales silently and sustained as he straightens himself again. "Morgan's alright. He has a room down the hall," Hotch answers, his eyes never leaving your face, making you feel very young all of a sudden. "It's you we were most worried about. All of us. And yes, we got Barnes," he adds kind of emphatically before you even got the chance to ask (you did want to, not a moment ago, but Hotch has been faster). "He panicked and got careless after he took you, and fortunately for us he made a mistake before you could become his next victims. I'll talk to you two later about the importance of backup when cornering an Unsub as well as about your own more than careless behavior."

"Yes, sir," you murmur, feeling much like a child being scolded by his father. You can sense that this won't be pretty, even more so because you already know how foolish you were, how dangerous it was, how much it could have gone wrong.

Hotch takes a step back, apparently mollified, and his shoulders seem a little less tense. "You, stay put," he says to you with an admonishing look while he walks to the door. "I'll go find a doctor and let the others know you're awake. Garcia, will you – "

"You got it, Bossman," she answers and salutes, already knowing that he wants her to stay by your side.

"Good." Hotch is almost out of the door when something seems to cross his mind and he halts, turning around again. "Oh, and Reid?"

"Yes, sir?" you ask, maybe even a bit confused, because that didn't sound like it was part of the upcoming lecture that awaits both you and Morgan. Hotch still doesn't smile and his expression hasn't changed, but something is different within him, and the gleam in his eyes is as close to a smile as it can possibly get now – because the 'sir' now is not the 'sir' it was years ago.

But he doesn't answer immediately, even though you think he could. For a moment and another he is just looking at you and deciding while you still have to figure out what this is all about. "Try not to give them a reason to keep you longer than necessary."

"Oh, uh…" You blink. Somehow, that isn't what you have expected, even though you don't know what you thought would come. "Uh, of course, yeah," you say, uncertainty wavering in your voice, and you don't know how you are supposed to react to what Hotch didn't tell you.

Without another word, Hotch is gone and you are left behind, wondering what he was talking about or if he was talking about anything at all. You can actually hear Garcia smiling next to you, but judging by the way she looks at you she either doesn't know it herself (which is unlikely) or she does know it but won't tell you anyway. You assume it is the latter.

"Don't worry 'bout him, he'll get over it," she says with a light chuckle and you are sure – it is definitely the latter. Whatever that is.

You inhale to ask her just that, when the breath reaches deep down and you find yourself in need for another one. You feel dizzy, and you hate it.

A last time you take in the unfamiliar sight of a needle on you, a last time you purse your lips to feel the cannula in full awareness. Then you lay back in resignation, willing yourself to just let it go for the time being. Things seem to be as good as they could possibly be after everything that has happened. The team got Barnes, you and Morgan are safe and sound (more or less) and it is only a matter of time before you can go home.

You have to remind yourself of that, repeating the facts countless times in your head already, until you will be actually able to believe them. This will probably take some time. But you seek comfort and reassurance in Garcia's presence, because she wouldn't be here (or at least, she wouldn't be that calm) if there was something to worry about. Right? You know she cares deeply about you just like you do for her and everyone else on the team – but Garcia and Morgan are another story. She wouldn't leave his side if he wasn't okay. She wouldn't, right?

So her being here does mean… it means… God, just please, let him be okay.

The beeping is hard to ignore and you force your eyes open again to look at Penelope. No, she wouldn't be here if there was any reason to worry. Her whole demeanor screams at you, betrays her, and even in your half-dazed state of mind you can comprehend that she is considerably exhaust and tired herself – but in a calm way.

She has been knitting, the thing that looks like a very short bilious green scarf still in her lap. That would explain the strange clicking noise you heard before, the needles touching each other with Garcia's movements. You can only guess how long she must have been sitting here. But either way – a knitting Garcia is pretty comforting, you think.

"Thank you," you say quietly, "for keeping me company." She smiles a silent 'You're welcome' and you clear your throat. While your mind comes round again and even your body starts to wake up, your voice still sounds like you have just eaten a box full of chalk. "You can go back to Morgan now," you tell her, not really knowing what this sentence is doing to you, only that it is indeed doing _something_ to you. "I don't want him to be alone when he wakes up."

Because you know what it feels like to wake up alone in a hospital. You can remember that feeling, it has been an old acquaintance before you got used to Morgan being by your side in cases like this.

But Garcia doesn't move a bit, she just smiles and rubs your arm (maybe she thinks it would be too much to actually pat you, yet). "Now look at you being all thoughtful and caring although you should just lie here and get better." It seems like a normal Garcia-thing to say but the way she says it is not quite that normal. She still worries about you, she is good at hiding it but you are better at seeing through her. "Of course I made sure our chocolate Adonis is not alone," she says almost fervently. "But in fact, he's not even asleep anymore, so I don't think it counts all that much, right?"

You take a deep breath, inhaling more than usual, and your lungs feel constricted and too full. "He's awake?" He is alive.

"Sure he is. We've been waiting just for you, sleepyhead," she answers with an honestly relieved smile and squeezes your lower arm. "It's good to have our pretty Baby Genius back with us again."

…_-ence and Baby and Pretty Boy and all the stuff you won't like. But it'll be okay because it's me and I'll be allowed to call you that stuff._

And you wouldn't have minded it coming from him, you think, wondering where that thought came from. Out of nowhere you have a lump in your throat, making it hard for you to swallow. The corners of your eyes feel hot and start to prickle, and you have to inhale two times before you find yourself able to exhale again. In sounds slightly choked in your ears but if Garcia notices it, she doesn't react to it.

"Who's with him?" you ask, trying to sound calm and, if anything, tired. "Where's everyone?"

"Let's see." She fidgets in her chair a bit, moving closer to you, and her arms come to rest next to your arm atop the blanket. "Rossi and Prentiss are with our favorite Stud Muffin. Hotch came here about thirty minutes ago and JJ's getting coffee for all. And I'm here, of course."

But it is not as of course as Garcia wants it to be. You know it, and it is not like you would blame her for it. There is nothing she could be blamed for, no mistake she has made – it is just the way things are and you are the last person to say something against it. But she is here, the whole team is here, and there is no better way than this to display just how much of a close call it has been this time.

"You know," Garcia says quietly, looking absentmindedly at your hand, "he was so worried about you. We all were. You flat-lined on the way down here and…" She sniffs, grabs your hand and looks at you again, sternly, determined and as fervently as only Penelope Garcia can. "Don't you dare do something like this to me _ever_ again, you hear me?"

You don't reply anything to that. A tired smile tugs on your lips and as a laugh bubbles in your chest, you can do nothing but to cough it away. It hurts and your throat feels dry, but your smile widens.

"I mean it!," she says firmly but there is a smile lighting up her features as well, crooked but oh so bright. "Don't pull a stunt like that again! I can't deal with that! You're our adorable Boy Wonder, you should be out there being adorable and brilliant and not… this… I can understand that you need your adrenaline rush from time to time but this is just sadistic!"

It feels more masochistic to you right now but you don't say it out loud. You try to repress your cough and when she tells you about her heart being too fragile for all this she lures your laugh out of your mouth. "I'll try to keep that in mind," you promise her.

"Now that's a good boy," she praises you and pats your palm appreciatively. Then she sighs, the smile never leaving her face. "Morgan will be so happy to hear that you're up again," she says. "He's asked me to come, you know?"

The laugh that has become a cough becomes a dry and shallow gasping you fail to repress again. Something in your face seems to change because something in Garcia's face does change as well. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth and her thin eyebrows raise in worry.

"Don't get me wrong, Angelfish, I'm not just here because of him," she adds and strokes her hand up and down your lower arm. "I've volunteered. After I made sure that he's alright I wanted to make sure you're alright as well. I was just saying that he thought of the same thing, like, great minds think alike. I would've come either way, alright?"

You force your coughing back and try deep breaths again that reach down almost all the way to your stomach. Your throat feels sore.

It makes sense when you think about it. Figures somehow that he asked her to come, and for a moment you don't know how to react. If Morgan really is alright again, then that makes you the only problem child left. You don't like being in a hospital, this is not a secret. Morgan himself knows that better than anybody.

It is only logical for him – when he cannot make it himself – to send the person he trusts the most to watch over you in his place. Which happens to be Garcia.

You have already thanked her for being here and you meant it, back then and now as well. To do it a second time wouldn't change anything and it wouldn't lessen the degree of gratitude you feel. You just force your lips to smile again, and it is surprisingly easy with her, even though your whole body suddenly feels tense and tight-drawn. There is still the burning in your eyes and the lump in your sore throat, and you are held together by something barely paper-thin that crumbles away like paint on an old canvas.

"Reid?" Garcia asks, sounding somewhat careful now. She looks careful, too, and you can feel how your guard refuses to be let down any further, even if it is only Penelope here. You hope she doesn't notice it, because you do know that, actually, there is no reason for you to keep your guard up around her. Still, your shoulders seem a bit more tense than a minute ago. "D'you remember… anything that happened?" she asks.

And what a question that is.

Swallowing, you knit your brows, and your lips are too dry and your throat is too tight. Your gaze drifts away from her face and settles somewhere near your hand. The needle is still kind of disturbing, but there is something else you just now recognize for what it is.

There is a bandage around your wrist, both your wrists to be exact. It stings every time you move your hand, and just looking at it brings back the memory of how your hands were tied together on your back, of how it made your shoulders stiff and how every move made your knee ache.

_You remember what happened?_

Maybe. Probably. But what is there to remember? You and Morgan were trapped in a basement, unable to move or do anything except for helplessly waiting for rescue or death – whatever would have been faster. What else is there to remember, other than the heat and the heavy air and the way Morgan looked at you while you were watching him die? What, aside from too much fear and too little time and the feeling of Morgan's lips against your own?

Do you remember anything that happened?

No. You remember _everything_ that happened.

It is playing behind your eyes as you close them, painfully clear and with an accuracy that makes you feel sick to your stomach. "I…," you say and this word is enough to make your voice shake, and you taste bile in the back of your throat. "I… think I have a headache."

Garcia lifts her hand up to your head and strokes your hair gently, trying to soothe away the pain that really is there, but most likely not because of the reason she probably thinks is the cause. "Oh, Reid, don't worry," she says. "We've already talked to the doctor, he said that's to be expected. You'll be fine in no time again, dove."

No surprise here since you already know that. You know what happens when the body suffers from anoxia and dehydration, you know the results – headaches, disorientation, hallucinations, dizziness. Temporarily memory loss. You know all that and you know, too, that you have given Garcia no answer. Still, she doesn't press and you lie back, fighting the urge to just pull the covers up above your head and fall asleep again.

What do you do now? How are you supposed to handle what happened? It seems so unreal, so… absolutely unthinkable. You said things you never thought you would and you heard Morgan say things you never even dreamed of.

For a second you consider that, maybe, your memory of what happened in that basement is not your actual memory but the remains of your delusions caused by the lack of oxygen and water. It would make things easier.

How are you supposed to move on? To move past this?

How are you supposed to look Morgan in the eyes ever again? Morgan – who asked you to marry him and whose proposal you accepted and whom you were kissing during the last beats of your heart. You don't know.

… _'m not gonna die and I won't let you die without this happening._

You just don't know.

A gush of air parts your lips. Your eyes are burning and the beeping of your heart rate monitor is a little erratic which means that not only the slight tremor in your fingers will give you away sooner or later if you don't act quick. Get hold of yourself, Spencer.

"So," you try, your voice hoarse and slightly high-pitched. "You said JJ's getting coffee?"

"Ha. For us, Junior G-Man. You'll stick to saline for the time being," she says with a grin and points to your drip, only an arm's length away from you.

You have expected nothing else, so you don't argue with her. In fact, her reply is just what you have hoped for, because it allows you to go on with what you have in mind. It is going to be a little white lie, nothing big – just a tiny excuse for you to regain your composure again. Hopefully. You try to sit up, using your elbows, but your arms feel weak and even though you think they would support you, you don't struggle as they break away.

"Easy," Garcia murmurs, and with your combined strength you make it into a somewhat upright position. "There you go," she says while she rearranges the blankets around you, and you are staring right at that point where the wall connects with the ceiling.

Think. Think faster.

With burning cheeks, too hot eyes and a prickling in your nose you turn to Garcia. You know that there won't be any coffee for you in the next few hours but, "You think you could get me some water? In a glass? To drink, maybe?"

Penelope looks at you, not quite shocked but still rather surprised, and forgets to reply for a second or two. It is not often that you ask others for something, this is nothing you normally do. You did now, though, and Garcia smiles and seems to be delighted to be able to do this for you, even if it is just a small thing. She puts the wool and the knitting needles at the end of your bed and pats your shin as she stands up.

There is a moment of awkwardness when you try to ignore that you both know that she could simply go to the bathroom to get some water. That would be sufficient, but it wouldn't be enough.

"I'll be right back, cupcake, don't you run away," she hums lightly, before turning around and walking to the door. Her body language shifts completely. Her worries are still there, they don't fade but they are hidden better now, still visible, noticeable, but not so much. She allows you your moment to recollect yourself, to realize and process as far as it is possible now.

A moment to let go.

"Be a good boy while I'm gone," she says, hand already touching the door handle. "And this" – she points at under her nose – "stays just like it is, right?"

You nod a short yes, you won't touch the cannula unless to take it off with permission of the doctor. Penelope's eyes linger a second too long on you and you try to smile while she tries the same, and when she finally leaves it is not a heartbeat too soon. As soon as the door falls shut your smile falls off your face and your brows furrow and you find yourself unable to swallow.

You were about to die. Again. And this time, this time Morgan was dying with you and you had to watch and you couldn't do anything to help him. And while a despicable twisted little part in you dared to almost be happy about it because you didn't have to die alone and because it wasn't just anybody but Morgan being with you, his face the last to see, his voice the last to hear… you still know how horrible it was. And you were afraid. And you were desperate.

Somehow, you still are.

What happened down there still clutches you, and though you are not shaking like a leaf you are shaken up enough to make your chest feel tight and your heart racing. You still cannot breathe.

A too sharp intake of breath, and you lift your hands to cover your eyes. You can feel the tears burning but not falling, hiding them even though nobody is here to see, and for an endlessly long moment the tension you feel is about to tear you apart. Like a music box wound up until the spring is stretched to breaking point where one can hear the cogs scream.

But you, on the other side, do not scream. You couldn't, even if you wanted to. You cannot scream. You cannot cry and you cannot breathe, either. Your lips are parted, your throat feels constricted, your eyes burn and you wish for yourself to break as much as you fear it.

When it happens (when you break), it happens with a sound which is not actually here but rather in your head, but for you it would be appropriate in a situation like this. Just a tiny sound, really, like a snapping grass stalk.

The spring flies apart, the cogs come out of mesh and the first tear rolls down your cheek. The second follows suit and you wipe them away with an awkward movement of your wrist, letting the bandaged soak them. You hide your eyes behind your hands, and no matter how many tears you wipe away, there are still more to come while it all melts away – the tension, the fear, the helplessness. The horror of watching Morgan die.

The feeling of his lips against your own.

It all melts away and the tears wash it away, and your breath catches in your throat. You snuffle, concealing your face from a world that is not even here to see. There is a raspy sob and the salty taste of your tears lingers faintly on your lips, and for one minute or maybe even two you simply let yourself cry.

Thinking that, if there was ever any good way to die, maybe it would have been like that.

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><p>Alright, first chapter done. What do you think of it?<p>

It will most likely be five parts here, one chapter per week. I probably would talk a little more now, if I just had the time. But this will have until next time. So stay tuned. :)

Bluey


	2. I hold you up above everyone

Part two, everyone!

As you have probably noticed by now, I've changed the point of view in the sequel. I figured, since we already know how it was for Morgan, it'd be nice to see what Reid thinks about all this stuff right here. I forgot to mention that, but... oh, well. :)

Thanks for the reviews, for the favs and everything - you really make my day!

Have fun, boys and girls, enjoy!

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><p>When Garcia returns, you got yourself under control again.<p>

Your face is probably reddened and your eyes are a little puffy and she sure as hell knows what happened in here – but she doesn't comment and you can smile at the glass of water being offered to you. You have found your glasses on the nightstand and the world is sharper now, making the exhaustion in Garcia's features even more visible. It has been a long day (and more) for everyone.

You drink the water slowly, little sips only, while Garcia is chattering about something you didn't quite catch. It doesn't seem to be important and Penelope seems to be relaxed, and you are halfway through the water as the door opens again.

Looking at the two steaming cups in her hands, JJ pushes her way in, elbow touching the door handle to press it down.

"They wanted to make me believe _this_ is coffee," she says, blowing a strand of golden hair out of her face that sneaked out of the loose ponytail. "Really, I'm still not sure I want to know how they actually _make_ this stuff but at least it'll keep us awake. Can't be worse than what they… – Spence!," she interrupts herself suddenly as her gaze drifts off of Garcia and towards you, and the cups almost slip out of her grasp.

You give an awkward little wave with your right and a smile with thin lips. JJ looks back at Garcia for a second and then rushes to your side. Putting the two cups on the nightstand, she touches your shoulder carefully before giving you a gentle hug.

"Hey JJ," you murmur, trying to return the embrace without spilling the water you have left. It is nice to know she is happy to see you. Not that you would have doubted it, but still, it is nice to know.

"Hey Spence," she answers and puts some distance between you and herself, and it is a strange sight to see her reddened eyes with slightly dark shadows beneath them. "God, I'm so…" Genuinely relieved. It really has been bad this time. "Are you alright? Since when are you awake again? How are you feeling?"

"Didn't Hotch tell you?" Garcia asks surprised, and you are just as surprised when you notice that her hand hasn't left your arm yet.

"No, I didn't see him since he came here," JJ answers. You take another inconspicuous sip of your water, leaning back and trying to maintain a low profile, while you can feel JJ's hand settling onto your other arm. You lift your eyebrows the slightest way, not wanting to flinch away and feeling really grateful for their presence but… you have always been rather peculiar about touching. "I just came by to drop off the coffee for you guys, the rest is still waiting outside."

"Hotch wanted to spread the news and call a doc," Garcia says. "You must've missed each – "

And that is where you block these two out and concentrate only on your breathing and drinking. You feel kind of cold. You are getting tired again. Their voices wash over you in a pleasant buzzing, and along with the ever present beeping you enjoy a tiny heartbeat of silence and nothingness in a sea of blinding white noise.

" -ou alright, Spence?"

You blink your eyes open, only just now realizing you have closed them, and you lift your face to meet JJ's, full of motherly concern. It comes with being the youngest, and you have always felt an urge to ease her worries. You look up at her with your so wide eyes and, as if it would be the most logical, the most natural thing to say, you reply: "I'm fine." Because, really, compared to what just happened to you, you are.

But your voice sounds too thin and the words too hoarse for her to believe you. And the hand that lies on your chest again and the thumb that rubs slow circles (which are your own) don't do much to convince her, either.

She seems to practically have to force herself to force a small smile onto her lips. She is not willing to even pretend that she is polite enough to at least try to believe you. This thought makes your head hurt, for whatever reason, but, "I really am good, JJ." You try to assure her with everything you have, your voice, your words, your face. "You don't have to worry, this is a perfectly normal physical reaction after almost dying due to suffocation. Dehydration alone causes the body massive stress, but in combination with the lack of oxygen, when the body is denied two of its most vital necessities, it's practically a wonder – "

"Well, I don't know about you, but he seems fine to _me_," Garcia interrupts jokingly and JJ smiles against her will. Of course they don't want do be reminded of the past hours, but how are you supposed to ease their minds otherwise?

Hotch chooses this exact same moment to return.

There is just a short knock before he enters the room, uncalled and with a doctor in tow. Taking in JJ's additional presence and your sitting upright and the glass of water and the cups of coffee (because he is a FBI agent, a profiler, and he is trained to notice things like this), he doesn't say a word to any of it and just fades into the background to observe.

The doctor clears his throat and smiles, a little helpless (maybe because of the audience) but not unkind. "Good evening, agent Reid."

"It's Dr. Reid," JJ and Garcia correct him, more or less simultaneously, and maybe Hotch doesn't even notice that he nods his head once in silent agreement.

The doctor blows a silent laugh and shows a toothy smile, and he looks at you rather fondly amused than actually apologetic. "I'm sorry. _Dr_. Reid," he tries again and lifts his eyebrows, eyes grazing the clipboard in his hands. "Good evening, Dr. Reid. Or good morning, to be. More. Accurate," he says kind of clipped while he takes a look at his wristwatch. He seems young, just over thirty, and the way he talks, the way he looks and looks at you… you can feel yourself already starting to profile him.

"May I ask you to leave the room for a minute or two?" he asks your teammates. "I'm sorry, I gotta ask you for some privacy while I'll talk to Dr. Reid. Regulations. I assure you, he's in good hands and it won't take long."

Eloquent. Confident. Successful, despite his young age, probably. He is good at what he does, and he knows it. Cocky, maybe even a bit more than that. But he appears to be friendly and caring for his patients.

None of them is willing to move, though, and you don't want them to move, either. "It's alright, they can stay, please," you say. You might not be a medical doctor, but you know what happened and you know what consequences there will be. Afterwards, you would tell them what the doctor said, anyway, and you don't have secrets around your team.

Not much.

"Okay… just as you wish, then. So, how're you feelin', Dr. Reid?" he asks you, expectantly, and you start to describe the pressure on your chest, the constricted feeling of your lungs, the soreness of your throat.

It doesn't take long for the both of you to agree upon the fact that this is all pretty normal, all very much to be expected after the basement-incident and there is nothing to worry too much about, yet. "We'll watch you over night for now," the doctor states and makes some notes on the clipboard. "Monitoring your recovery and makin' sure everything's going according to plan."

"How long do you need to keep him here?" Hotch asks from behind and the doctor turns around as if he has forgotten him standing there.

"Oh, I think, uhm" – he takes another look through the notes – "I think, we'll wait and see how things go tonight and then I'll arrange for some tests to be done first thing in the morning – "

… _can drive up to Vermont first thing in the morning, if you like… _

" – and I won't promise anything, but considering Dr. Reid's current condition I guess, after we got the results, he's likely to leave sometime in the afternoon tomorrow. But, if I _may_ suggest, go… easy on your agents for the next few days, agent Hotchner." He says it carefully, calculating and with a charming smile.

Hotch shoots a glance at you, and you know that, out of the two of you, Hotch won't be the first to tell you to come back. Because he needs to make sure that everything is alright again. Because he cannot allow someone who isn't absolutely capable of doing his job working in his team.

And because he cares. In his own ways.

Hotch asks whether some kind of special treatment is needed, some kind of precautions, and the doctor says that no, you just have to slow down a little and take care of yourselves. Their talk doesn't even last two minutes.

He is about to take his leave, when you speak up. "Excuse me, doctor?"

He turns to face you again, too fast to hide his tiredness completely before he meets your eyes. "_Yes_, Dr. Reid," he answers with a friendly smile and that kind of enthusiasm that occurs when fatigue collides with the will to suppress that fatigue, to push oneself just that much further, dark circles be damned.

"How's agent Morgan doing?" you ask. The glass of water sits on the nightstand beside you and one of your thumbs touches the inside of your bandaged wrist, the wet spot where your tears soaked the fabric.

The doctor holds the clipboard in one hand, the other is stuffed in the pocket of his white coat. You can sense the rejection on the tip of his tongue. Regulations all around. But then there are JJ, Garcia and Hotch, and maybe it really is a little difficult to understand the dynamics of your team from an outsider's point of view (it is difficult enough for you at times, because the team changed so much over the years, and where you needed to trust each other in the past, you _want_ to trust each other now).

Looking at his shoes, he purses his lips for a second. "Agent Morgan's doin' very fine," he says finally. "In fact, he doesn't even have… this anymore…" He points at under his nose. "I'm sure I don't need to explain to you what happened to him and what that means for him and why that is."

"No," you answer in a low voice, the grip around your wrist tightening, making it sting.

The doctor nods. "That's what I thought. Just believe me, Dr. Reid, agent Morgan's doing good. Just like you will, soon." He stands near the door again. "If you need anything, please call me. I'm the doctor in charge for tonight. Otherwise, I'll check on you in a few hours. And," he says while he opens the door and turns his back on you, addressing Hotch before all others, "they _really_ need their rest, agents."

With that, the doctor is gone and Hotch exhales deeply – the only concession he would make to his exhaustion.

Your hands in your lap, you bite your bottom lip, worrying the dry skin that used to be rather soft. How can you get them to leave? It is not just Morgan and you who need rest, they do need their rest as well. And you yourself… you need to be alone. You need to think.

"Should, you know, one of us maybe stay here?" Garcia asks, and her hand is still warm against your upper arm. By now, the urge to flinch away has almost vanished.

"Garcia," Hotch says, and there is some kind of strange tension between the three of them. You feel as if they leave you out of something a little, especially when you notice the way JJ and Garcia look at Hotch and at each other, but not really at you. Like you are some child and everyone around you somehow decides over your head.

"That's absolutely not necessary," you pipe up and it actually works, because JJ and Penelope turn their heads in your direction. Hotch doesn't have to do that, all he does is fixing his eyes on you, moving nothing but them. "You guys need some rest, too. You should go back to the hotel and catch up on some sleep. You can… I mean, of course you can't really _catch __up _on sleep and you can't accumulate it, either, but… you know, you should just go get some rest, you really look like you could use it."

It is not like they could do anything for you, anyway, and, kindly enough, Hotch points that out not a moment later. You are going to be monitored throughout the night, you are conscious and right now you seem to be the one most rested in this room.

Which is saying something.

The women don't approve all that much, but their frazzle wins in the end and they comply. Garcia stuffs her wool and the needles in her bag and JJ picks up the coffee that has gone completely unheeded. You couldn't even smell it because now the only thing you can smell is the air you breathe and its nothingness.

"If you need anything, you will call immediately. Got it, sugar plum?" Garcia kisses your cheek goodbye and rubs the lipstick that is left on your skin off with her thumb. "And don't you worry about anything, we'll support you wherever we can. Everything's gonna be fine."

"Garcia," Hotch warns again, and your brows furrow at his strangely commanding tone and Garcia pulls a face, rolling her eyes, before she winks at you and steps back.

JJ cannot give you a proper hug with her hands full, so she kisses your other cheek, a smile on her lips that still holds such relief that it tugs at your oh so logical heartstrings. You lie back, pressing your torso further into the cushion and trying to relax, and they walk through door Hotch holds open for them. JJ disappears first, Garcia follows suit and Hotch is the last to leave.

You have given in to the desire to close your eyes for a bit, but when you sense Hotch still standing there, you force them open again. He silently watches you, and you get a little uneasy when seconds pass and he doesn't say a word, even though you think there has to be _something_.

"Hotch?" you ask carefully and that makes him snap out of it.

Like before, Hotch is halfway through the door. After a short pause, the slightest hint of hesitance even, you can see him take a deep breath – and for some reason it makes the oxygen taste bitter on your tongue. How easy it is now, how absolutely naturally it happens, because there is more than enough to breathe in, unlike back then, when it mattered.

Breathe, Spencer, just breathe and don't let the beeping get any faster.

"Give us a call when you are released," he says. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye," you say in a rather thin voice that is almost choked with surprise. Then he is gone, too, and you don't know what you have done to upset him. Maybe it is his way to deal with things like this – being angry about what happened, being strict and insistent on regulations, because it proofs that there is no need to worry about your and Morgan's well being, because you got off with no more than a slap on the wrist.

You take off your glasses and rub your eyes with the back of your hand. They burn with tiredness, and to stress them now makes your headache more intense. You have one night to recover. Maybe you should stick to baby steps for now.

They turned off the ceiling light and only left on the lamp half above, half behind your head. It spreads a dim, rather cold light in the room that doesn't even reach the corners. You roll your shoulders, trying to find a somewhat comfortable position. Not working.

The beeping next to you is the only sound, now that you are alone. Steady and matching your pulse, and when you aren't trying too hard to block it out, you can almost ignore it, easily so.

But in all honesty, how much of an idiot can you possibly be?

One should think that you really would have learned a thing or two over the past few years. You yourself are reputed to be a genius. Granted, you never truly called yourself that (except for the handful of occasions where it was unavoidable in order to make people understand that you really, _really_ are allowed to do the job you do, because you are not just some kid and you damn well know what you are doing). But in any case, you are far from stupid. And Morgan is, too.

Truth be told, the both you and Morgan have picked up on one thing or another. But not the essential stuff, it seems.

You _do_ not simply run into a house where you suspect a potential Unsub. Even less, if there is no back-up. You should know that by now. _You_ of all people should know. Or have you already forgotten what happened that last time you did that?

One could assume you did, if it wasn't for the fact that you have an eidetic memory that never forgets. If it wasn't for the fact that you could feel the anthrax again. And the memory lingers, in the ache that is your breathing.

Your hand covers your sternum, cupping it in a feathery light touch to keep as much pressure from it as possible. Legs outstretched and your right heel rubbing your left, it is probably easier to list the things that _don't_ hurt, while you try to bethink of the fact that pain mostly is a matter of mind. You are the one who says it starts in your head.

_Don't let it get in your head. Talk to me._

And just look what talking to Morgan made you do. In the end, you just blurted out things you thought you would… well, actually, you never really thought you would take them to your grave. You didn't think you would have to keep them to yourself forever (you don't think you could have), but you didn't plan on revealing your heart in that way or that situation and you most likely would have waited until you are sure that he… you…

As soon as you notice your eyes falling shut, you blink them open again, staring blindly at the ceiling. Despite your exhaustion, sleep is not about to come too soon.

How often have you been in such a situation? None like this one right here, of course. But how often have you thought about telling Morgan how you feel? How often have you thought you _need_ to tell him, because you felt death breathing down your neck once again?

There have been Charles Hankel and Raphael and Tobias who not only made you _fear_ for your life but ended it for a few moments and then gave it back to you. There have been Morgan driving bombs out of hospitals and Benjamin Cyrus placing bombs in churches. There have been Chad Brown with his anthrax and George Foyet with his mercilessness.

There have been things that made you reach out for him and there have been things you think that made him reach out for you, too.

And now there has been Barnes who let his victims suffocate as a punishment for them not acting on their feelings for one another. And Morgan and you were his last victims-to-be. And maybe you really _were_ his victims.

Just think about it for a second. Barnes' victims had feelings for each other they didn't voice – you and Morgan neither, it seems, for years. Barnes abducted his victims – he abducted you and Morgan. Barnes let his victims die in each other's presence – like you and Morgan were about to die, face to face, despairing, admitting, kissing. Barnes set up his victims for something couple-ish, some everyday occurrence for them – is there any occurrence more everyday for you and Morgan than hunting an Unsub, working the job, dying on duty?

Morgan and you fit the victimology better than it would seem at first.

Ironic, isn't it? So ironic, it makes your lashes get wet as you blink. Your life and your own safety are at stake on a regular basis. If it is about that aspect of your job, you should have told Morgan ages ago. But you didn't – until a few hours back.

And then, just like that, you were married for the last moments of life.

This thought is intruding and it occupies your mind for you don't know how long. Hours, maybe. It makes you sleepy. Somewhere along the night, a nurse comes in to check up on you. She doesn't knock, probably because she hasn't expected you to be awake at such an hour. She only ever notices when she stands right beside you to control the IV and you look up to her, and it makes her flinch.

Whispering a quiet "Good morning," (as if she fears to disturb someone else's slumber) she takes you pulse and asks you whether you need something. You don't.

Are you in pain? No (like hell you would admit to it).

Maybe you want something that helps you fall asleep again? No, most definitely not.

She makes some notes on the clipboard at the end of your bed and leaves. You really hate hospitals. But you cannot even get comfortable again – while you still try, the overeager because overtired doctor bursts in again, the nurse from before hot on his heels. A little more coffee, a little less sleep. You are familiar with that. Yet, you are surprised when they attempt to take the nasal cannula off.

The doctor wants to see how you are doing when it is only you breathing, how your body, your heart and your lungs will handle it. He wants to fulfill your wish to leave as fast as you can. Because you are FBI? Be that as it may, you don't really care, anyway.

"Everyone wants to get away from here asap, I don't know why we're not able to keep our customers satisfied enough to stay," he complains, his voice high with fake frustration.

The corner of your mouth curls upwards tiredly. "At least, you're unlikely to run out of customers," you answer.

You can see how pleased he is to have made you smile and even joke back. "Yeah, they're coming faster than they're going, in fact," he says, laughing.

The first three breaths you take on your own are heavy (because all at once it is not enough anymore and back then, it wasn't enough, either), and they make you feel like you sink a little more into the mattress and he eyes you carefully. You force the sudden discomfort back, but it is arduous and your brows furrow unwittingly. The beeping next to you gets out of step ever so slightly. Come on, _get __a__ grip, __Spencer!_

The doctor and the nurse wait a minute or so, watching you getting used to the efforts of something so natural again. When it gets easier and the feeling of faint panic tails off, there is a tiny gesture from the doctor to the nurse and she leaves.

The door closes, it gets silent and the doctor walks up to you, looking at you far too acquainted. His hand finds your wrist and two fingertips sneak under the bandage a bit to search for a beat. You don't like that, but the doctor pretends not to notice how you flinch (now that you are awake enough to do so). He faces his wristwatch while taking your pulse, but as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other he lifts your arm a little more, turning its pale inner side upwards. He doesn't even seem to realize that his eyes begin to wander off. You do, though.

And you pull away as his bored but always knowing gaze meets the skin of your elbow, just where the gown ends.

His expression isn't judgmental (you are not sure whether or not he even gets it), but you don't want his sympathy (for whatsoever), either. You cross your arms, your palms pressed to never fading memories.

"Dr. Reid," he sighs (and in that instant you finally notice that it is Ethan he reminds you of). "Let's put this straight, okay? Between you and me, I mean we're like fellows. I do understand that you wanna go home, alright? And I'm here, I'm doin' this, 'cause I wanna help you with that. But please promise me that you won't push yourself too hard. I've seen your record, y'know, and we really gotta be careful. I do what I can but if it's not workin' and you need more time, you better believe I'm gonna give it to you."

You know that. And, "I'll try," you promise. It is the best promise you can give.

He nods, not utterly convinced. "If nothing happens, we'll have the monitor removed in a bit, but for now, y'know, just to be on the safe side." He taps the bed with the flat of the hand and steps back. "It's not often that I have the pleasure of dealing with feds. Quite interesting how similar y'all act. Is everyone in the FBI like you and your team?"

Is everyone in the FBI kind of overprotective when it comes to their team members? "I don't know, maybe?" You are not willing to let him in on how the inner team mechanism works for you or might work for others.

Maybe he knows, maybe he can sense it – or maybe he simply can read your expression for you aren't exactly subtle when it comes to things you don't want to talk about. He smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and is all business again when he turns to leave. "Get home safely," he says, and you don't stop him this time. The door closes behind him and you really just want to go home.

You hate waiting. Not being able to do anything. You hate the thoughts that come in moments like this. And breathing is exhausting.

The rest of night crawls by without you falling asleep again. You doze off a handful of times when you cannot keep your eyes open any longer. Whenever your lids fall shut and stay that way for just a second too long, though, you jerk awake with visions from what happened which make you feel like your are back in that basement. For only a second, but every time without fail.

You nod off sometime in the early morning with light shining through the half closed blinds of the window after all, and it is blissfully numb and dreamless. In fact, the nurse has to wake you up in order to remove the monitor, and a strange kind of silence follows this procedure.

The hustle and bustle from outside seep into your room and makes the time pass a little faster. The tests that await you basically serve the purpose to see whether or not your body can stand the strain of a daily routine. It can, it has to – you won't let anyone tell you otherwise. You go along with it willingly and wordlessly.

Your mind is way too occupied to pay attention to things you already know the results of. Because you still haven't figured out the important thing.

What about Morgan? And you? And the whole thing?

Garcia brought your Go Bag the previous evening when she arrived at the hospital and now it sits next to the nightstand, waiting just like you to get ready and leave. They have taken off the IV and just the needle remains in the back of your hand, and it reminds you with every movement that it shouldn't be there. And it is a strange feeling (not solely relief, not only that) when a doctor comes and finally removes it for good.

It is not the doctor from before – _he_ is probably taking a nap – and this one here is not at all like him. He seems rather aloof, almost patronizing, and your profiling skills detect a narcissistic streak after not even the first minute.

You don't really listen to what he says, you endure more than you pay attention. It is not like he can tell you something you wouldn't already know, anyway. In your life, you already gathered more than enough experience with suffocation in many forms and with death itself in general – more than this man in front of you, maybe, ever will.

"Are there anymore questions, Dr. Reid?" he asks.

"No, doctor," you say as politely as you can. His mere presence is unnerving, like this whole place is.

"Very well, then," he says, scribbling something onto the clipboard in his hands. "That would be it. I've done all I can for you, I've instructed you about how to handle your inconvenience. You may leave now, just fill in the form at the reception."

"Uhm, excuse me, is – " You sit up straighter in your bed. "Would I be correct in assuming that agent Morgan is leaving as well?"

"Dr. Reid, I believe you know very well that I'm not allowed to talk about other patients' condition to you," he answers, head raised so much that he cannot do much different than to look down on you.

"Ah – " the corner of your mouth twitches upwards in a helpless smile " – but agent Morgan and I are working together, I'm sure he wouldn't mind – "

"In that case, _I'm_ sure you will know soon enough whether or not he will be leaving. With you," he adds in an odd way, and you grit your teeth. You don't say anything anymore, and even when he bids his goodbye, you don't say anything in return. It doesn't take a genius or a profiler to figure out that this doctor now and the one from tonight probably don't get along all that well.

Your head sinks back into the pillow and your teeth graze the inner edge of your lower lip. Lip biting has always been a bad habit of yours, but now with almost thirty it isn't appropriate anymore. And it just doesn't look good.

You know you would never pass as an alpha male and you are used to people treating you like this because of your age, your appearance, your behavior. Sometimes, you can take advantage from it. Other times, it is just really annoying. Like now.

Morgan and you are co-workers, for heaven's sake. You are friends. You are… you don't know what you are right now. Or what you could be. Or what you still _can_ be after what happened.

But if you have heard correctly, according to what Garcia and the first doctor told you, Morgan has been doing better than you from the very start. So the chances of him leaving when you do are pretty good, right? Also, the doctor from tonight seemed to be sympathetic to you, so maybe he has pulled a few strings.

In any case, you have to face Morgan in the nearest future. You don't think it will end in disaster, but you still have no clue how… any of this will go.

As you shove your legs out of bed to stand up, you feel slightly dizzy. The first step you make on your own (in a pretty long time, considering your job is based in large part on thinking on your feet) is kind of unsteady, and when you put weight on your left leg you hiss and stumble backwards. Your hand finds the mattress in an instant. After a few seconds, you exhale slowly as the pain eases as well as the sudden tension in your body.

_That_ was unexpected.

Your bad knee completely slipped your mind and now it screams for attention. It is short and sharp like a slap in the face and the aftermath is a warm and humming ache at the edge of your consciousness. But it is not like that could hinder you from leaving.

You know how to handle this injury and not in a hundred years would you admit to it in front of anyone who isn't your team. You won't shove into the nurses' faces, and what they don't know won't hurt them. Compose yourself.

After a quick shower and some fresh clothes you feel almost like yourself again. You wear contacts again. You have brushed your teeth and taken off the bandages from around your wrists, and now you can see the dark red lines carved into your skin. For a second, while you reach out for your Go Bag and put atop the bed, they are practically glowing against your white flesh.

Liking your lips, a shiver runs down your spin and tingles at the small of your back. You grab your coiled tie and let it glide through your hands, and putting it on is the very first thing that feels normal. You don't need a mirror for that, the familiar movements engraved into your memory since you graduated high school.

You smooth it down flat against your chest, before slipping into a navy blue cardigan. When it is buttoned up, you feel a little more in control over the whole situation, a little more like the person you are and are comfortable with.

It is the moment where you shove your glasses into the specs case and put it into the side pocket of your bag that you hear a muffled knock on the door. You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. Just who is it _this __time_? Everything is said and done, what could they possibly want now? You don't want to see anyone anymore, you just want to go home already. So you dig your arms into your bag, facing it, and you don't look up when you call: "Come in, please."

They won't stop you from leaving now. Absolutely not.

The light shifts in the room as it floats not only though the windows but through the door as well, and a body blocks it on its way. "Hey Reid," you hear the oh so familiar voice, and it sounds thick and relieved and unsure all at once.

* * *

><p>So much for that. Who might this misterious intruder be?<p>

Slow beginnings are slow, I know and I'm kinda sorry, too, but personally, I think we've finally reached the point where a little bit more dynamic comes into play. Although, that might just be me. Real action is something I seem to safe for the next story. There are two ideas stuck in my head that I'd like to try, but I still ponder which one to approach first and how to take it - if this "you"-thingy should stay or if I should try something new.

Anyway, I hope you're still with me here. Let me know what you liked and didn't like, and thanks everyone for reading. I'll see you next week. :)

Bluey


	3. And I do want you to know

Happy Easter, everybody! I hope the Easter bunny has been kind to all of you.

I just want to take a moment to apologize for not getting back to all of you who left a review. The last two weeks have been awfully busy for me, university wanted paper after paper, I needed to prepare for the new semester and so on. I'm really sorry, if some of you hoped for a reply. Just let me tell you, your reviews make me really happy (ha, what a surprise), so please don't give up on me. It'll get better from now on.

Anyway, we've finally reached the part I think some of you have been waiting for. Kind of. Maybe. Still, we have some chapters to go.

I hope you'll enjoy!

* * *

><p>Your head shoots up, turning to the left, and there he is.<p>

Morgan leans in the door frame, his Go Bag casually hanging over his shoulder, leather jacket and everything else in place, looking as if the past forty-eight hours never have happened.

"Hey," you say, breathe it, unable to hide that he catches you off guard. It is one thing to _know_ that he is alive and kicking. It is a completely different thing to _see_ it for yourself. Your head is buzzing.

For a few seconds, you look at each other, before he takes a step towards you and the door glides shut, the tiniest bit ajar. The bag dangles at his side now and his eyes take you in the way they always do when the dust begins to settle after a close call.

"How're you feelin', man?" he asks. Your lips twitch and you swallow kind of hard.

'Reid'. 'Man'.

This is not what he said it would be. There is no 'Spence', no 'Pretty Boy', not even a 'Kid'. But maybe he doesn't want that. Maybe this is not the way he wants things to be between him and you, anymore or at all or whatever. Maybe what happened did happen because there wasn't an 'afterwards' to be expected, no consequences for promises you cannot keep.

"Kid?" he asks then, and it makes one corner of your mouth turn upwards and your gaze drop down for an instant. Another step towards you and you wonder whether he even notices it.

"Yeah, I'm, I just, I'm checking that I've got everything I need," you answer and continue flipping through the contents of your bag.

"I doubt there could be something missing, Garcia grabbed everything she could get hold of," Morgan says with that unique smile of his, that twinkle in his eyes whenever he gets all flirtatious with her. "I mean, I'm sure I didn't bring that many towels with me."

"Me, too," you say with a lopsided grin. "And I can't remember bringing a copy of _The__ Godfather_ with me on the case, either." You let a corner of the worn cover peek out from your bag. Who knows where she found that.

"_The __Godfather_, huh? That's pretty good stuff," he comments. "'I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse'."

You laugh quietly to yourself at his attempt to sound like Don Vito Corleone. "Yeah, it is. Did you know that the executives of _Paramount__ Pictures_ weren't a big fan of Brando? They favored Sir Laurence Olivier but Oliver's agent refused the offer, saying he's very sick, he's gonna die soon and he's not interested. He still lived _eighteen__ years_ after the refusal, though," you add.

Morgan's face splits into a teeth showing grin and, for a moment, he looks unbelievably pleased. You cannot help but to return the smile.

You zip your bag slowly because you can only guess what will come afterwards. You don't know how you like that. Step by step, Morgan came closer and now he is standing at the foot of the bed. You don't look in his direction, checking every zipper once again.

"And you sure you're alright?" Morgan asks and watches you kind of warily.

You turn to Morgan to face him, because you know he wouldn't believe you if you don't look him in the eyes. "Yes, Morgan, I'm sure I'm fff- mhh!" But you twist your knee awkwardly and the pain is too unexpected and too sudden – your legs buckle instinctively.

Morgan's hands shoot up to catch you. There is a thud as his bag hits the ground, and one hand grabs your arm while the other lands on your shoulder. Your face nearly collides with his chest, your nose almost touching his shirt. Your own hands grip his upper arms instinctively to steady yourself.

It is like a red-hot wire through your body and it is blinding even with your lids closed. As you blink them open your gaze wanders off to where his fingers are curled around your elbow. It is strange how the urge to flinch away is barely there when it is him touching you.

Because this is Morgan whom you trust implicitly, and maybe that is all it takes to make it okay.

His sleeve is askew. He is not wearing any bandages, and you see him exposing the same bracelets you have, just redder, rawer, deeper because his struggle against the ties was much more intense.

What happens next goes very fast and yet so slow that you are aware of every move you and Morgan make. It is like you and him move as one. Your arms close around his chest, hands meeting on his back, while his arms encircle your shoulders. It is soft at first, almost hesitant, but you hold onto each other tight in a matter of seconds. Clothes rustle and his warmth soaks your skin. Good thing he is not afraid to break you.

Good thing you don't need to be afraid to break him.

You feel his fingers in your hair as he presses your head right against his shoulder. You clutch his jacket, and you smell leather and him and you know that he is alive, that he made and that you made it, too. He is warm and breathing in your arms and for just a moment you are overwhelmed with relief. It prickles in your eyes and you stare at the ceiling, trying to blink it away.

You really were so scared this time.

"Me, too," he murmurs, and only then do you notice that you have said that out loud.

His face is pressed into the crook of your neck and his lips graze your skin as he speaks. His arms around you squeeze you so tight, it almost hurts and you shake with the effort of holding onto him. You reach for your face over his shoulder and rub your eyes with your knuckles to prevent upcoming tears.

You hold your breath and turn your head inward. Something shifts. All of a sudden, this seems far more intimate now, and you wonder how an embrace that feels so bone crushing can be so tender at the same time.

The knock hardly announces your next visitor before the door opens again.

"Hey Reid, you ready to g-… whoa my God, I'm so sorry!," Prentiss exclaims, her eyes going huge and one hand half covering her mouth, halting in her movement before she even steps fully inside. She grips the strap of the bag she holds a little tighter, and if you would have to make a guess, then you would think she is shocked rather because she disturbed you than because of what she sees. She pulls the door half shut again as she takes you in. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't burst in like that." She really shouldn't.

A situation like this is bound to make things awkward. Heck, less precarious situations have left you feeling awkward. But not now, as funny as it might be. You don't even feel your cheeks heat up.

And you don't jump apart, either.

You let your arms sink and move to sheer off from Morgan a little. His hands rest on your shoulders, though, therefore you don't succeed much. You two look at Prentiss, keeping a straight face all the way, and she licks her lips as she waits for you to say something.

The bag she is holding is light brown and made of leather. Old and worn, and nobody knows its content better than you do. Because Emily brought your messenger bag. To see it is comforting. It makes what happened seem a little more like a bad dream.

But then there are the weals around your wrists and the light bruise on the back of your hand where the needle pierced the skin and you know it was real.

"Uhm, Hotch told me to come and get you two," she tries then. "I've taken care of the release papers. Just… come when your're ready. I'm waiting outside."

Placing your messenger bag next to the threshold, she gives you a helpless smile and a tiny shrug and closes the door, shut and secure this time, and Morgan and you are alone again. And now awkwardness hits you. You know you should say something and maybe you shouldn't have jumped him like you did. But you are not quite sure whether you acted or reacted, and you don't think you need to apologize for something he responded to so… willingly.

"I, ah…"

"So," Morgan says, sounding light-heartedly, and you notice that his hands are gone from your shoulders. He looks at you as if it doesn't mean anything to him that Prentiss found you two all but desperately hugging. "You ready to go?"

Something in the way he asks lifts a weight inside you and you feel you lips stretch into a smile. "Absolutely, yes," you answer, rolling your eyes as if that is all you have been waiting for. And it is (and was), actually.

He laughs, "Alright, Kid," and raises his hand, reaching for your head, and what he does is a strange mixture of petting your hair and ruffling it, one swift stroke only. Too fast but too affectionate to be either of it. "Let's get out of here."

_We have to get out of here._

Strange how something that sounds so similar can be so different. You clear your throat and grab your bag to follow Morgan to the door. You are glad that he doesn't offer his help, because you would decline and because you don't want him to think you are weak. You are not weak.

You ignore how Morgan looks for only a second over his shoulder to check if everything is okay with you. Holding your Go Bag at your side, you let him open the door and pick up you messenger bag. When its strap runs across your chest again and you feel the familiar weight on you, you realize how tense you have been the whole time. You relax noticeably, now that you are finally able to leave this place.

Following Morgan through the hospital, you don't say much. Actually, you don't say anything at all, you simply look down because the neon light is not exactly friendly towards your eyes (especially in the elevator).

In a silent understanding, he lets you get out first and next to each other you head for the black SUV where Emily waits for you, leaning against the car. Nothing betrays that she saw what she just saw, she smiles and it gets brighter the closer you come. "Hey guys," she greets you.

"Hey princess," Morgan says and you settle for a small smile.

Putting your bags in the trunk where Emily's is already sitting, you stand slightly away from the others, keeping a little distance you don't even recognize at first. Prentiss reaches for your messenger bag but you raise your hand and shake you head. Your are not willing to let go of something that helps you go back to normal again.

Ducking your head, you move for the back seats as soon as everything is set. Morgan and Prentiss watch you with some surprise and raised brows, but after a few moments Emily shrugs ever so slightly and they let it go.

Morgan heads for the drivers seat, stopped by Prentiss after the first two steps. "Uh-uh, Mister, no way," she says and shoves him away, gently but determined. "_I'm_ driving. You get over there."

And laughing, Morgan takes his seat on the passenger side.

"So, where to? Police station?" Morgan asks as you all fiddle with your seat belts. Your bag sits in your lap and Emily checks the rear view mirror, while Morgan turns on the radio. Low music fills the space of the too silent car.

"No, straight to the airport," Prentiss answers and starts the motor. "Everyone just wants to go home."

"Wonder why," he says, and they share a brief smile before she pulls out of the parking lot.

JJ had to inform the media about the outcome of the case (Emily is doing that for you as a sideline). Garcia had to clean up the technical chaos she created and put everything back the way she found it (although there is always a thing or two to learn for those she graces with her presence). And Hotch and Rossi took care of the debriefing (the unit chief and a senior profiler should be enough authority to do that).

This leaves Prentiss picking you up. "I hope they're done soon," Prentiss sighs and merges into the traffic. Morgan drums a silent beat with his fingers on his thigh and you look out of the window. You pretend not to notice how Emily watches you through the rear view every once in a while.

Morgan engages her in a light conversation which makes it easy for you to block them out most of the time. That may sound and seem sort of rude, but you all appear to be mostly content with it.

"What?" you hear Emily's high-pitched voice somewhere along the way. "How could they ever think Marlon Brando wasn't right for _The__ Godfather_?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Morgan says.

Your head leans against the pane, and for a split second your eyes flicker in his direction. But you keep to yourself for the rest of the drive, floating with the world that passes by outside.

Funny enough, you arrive almost at the same time as the others. Garcia and JJ are just about to board the jet and Hotch and Rossi stop half way between the car and the plane because they have seen you coming. When you get out of the car, Garcia beams and claps her hands like a little girl, and you can see how Rossi's chest expands as he takes a deep relieved breath.

"It's very good to see you," he says to you, and his hand lands heavily on your shoulder.

You adjust both your bags to shake the hand he then offers to you and smile. "Thanks," you reply, "you too."

He nods, pats your arm once and walks off towards the jet, pushing past JJ and Garcia who stand there waiting at the entrance. Morgan and Prentiss passed you by and meet the two other women who start to chatter away as soon as they are in earshot.

For just a moment your eyes meet Morgan's, before Garcia says something that calls his attention and makes him turn away and towards her. You don't hear what they say but you can see the girls grin as they all disappear inside.

Hotch waited the whole time. Now you look at him and you get the feeling that his stern gaze never left you. The thought of him watching you while you don't know what to think or feel or do is kind of awkward in a way you can't describe, and you don't know what you did to deserve it. Hastily, you move to scurry past him.

It is warm inside and a strange easiness seems to pervade everyone more or less. The relief that you all can go home together after such a close call, a mistake that almost cost two more lives (two of you own), is palpable.

They have taken the two four seater booths next to each other. Garcia sits next to Morgan with JJ across from him. Prentiss and Rossi occupy the other table, and most of them sit with their legs crossed and look at you. You cannot see Morgan's face and you avoid looking in his direction (hopefully, not too obviously avoiding) and you hear Hotch's footsteps behind you.

"Spence," JJ says with a smile and pats the space next to her invitingly. "Come sit down."

"Yeah, Baby Einstein, have a seat," Garcia joins in happily.

You can sense Hotch's presence behind you now, and you kind of feel pressure from all sides. "Thanks, I just go sit over there and… yeah," you reply. You can pretend to want to make way for Hotch and therefore, it is probably not all that suspicious as you clumsily try to move along, struggling with you bags again. One bumps against Emily's armrest and you mumble an apology, stumbling down the aisle, and you feel curious stares on you.

* * *

><p>I feel kinda bad for making a cut here. Partly, because I'm aware that this chapter is slightly shorter than the previous chapters (or the ones that follow, for that matter). But I felt like this is the most logical point to make a break. It's not over yet, don't worry. Our boys still have to sort out some things.<p>

I'm a little nervous, because this story involves the team a little more than "Breathing Space", and I'm not quite sure I got them right. But as usual, your opinions are very much apprechiated.

Have a nice week, everybody. Hopefully, I'll see you next time. :)

Bluey


	4. I think you'd be good to me

Hotch joins Prentiss and Rossi' table, while you tuck away you bags and sit down. You have your team in your back, close enough to not be fully excluded but with too much distance to be really included, either.

After a moment of uneasy silence because of your rejection, conversation sets back in and shortly afterwards the two and a half hour flight home starts. Along with the buzzing of the engines the voices of your team make you feel grounded and warm, and you melt into your seat.

You have approximately two hours and twenty-six minutes to decide how to handle this thing with Morgan.

For the past two days until now, the both of you have been in some kind of a no-man's-land, a grey area. But you know you have to do something, and as soon as you are back in Quantico you will have to make a decision. You work together and whatever this is _mustn't_ affect your performances at the job. And besides (and first and foremost) – you are friends.

Morgan is the one closest to you. In a way, he is closer to you than even your own mother. Not because she doesn't care or because you don't trust her, but Morgan is the one who is always there.

You have been content with being his friend, and given his record it would be within the bounds of possibility that this is the most it could ever be. That would have been fine. More than fine. You have never expected anything, really. Pictured it – maybe. Thought about it – of course. But you have never had any expectations on him.

Even though there were times when you thought it was a little… too much on his side. On yours, too, perhaps. Sometimes he got a little too protective of you, sometimes his eyes stared a little too intense at you, sometimes his hand was a little too low or too warm or simply too soft on your back. You goaded each other more and more, and maybe it was only a matter of time until this state would reach its dead end.

The dead end is here now. Go back or try something new. Stagnation lasted way too long already.

" – alright?" you hear Rossi's voice, very close to you, actually, and a shadow falls on your face. You lift your gaze (from whatever you have been looking at, you don't even know) and meet his eyes, surprised by the fact that he is standing right there with two cups in his hands.

"Excuse me?" you say, blinking.

"I said, are you alright?" Rossi repeats patiently.

"Ah, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," you answer, but the smile on your lips feels pale and thin. Rossi seems not convinced but he doesn't broach the subject again. Instead, he offers you one of the dark blue steaming cups and you reach for it without thinking twice. The twine dangles at its side, indicating that it is not coffee but tea, and as you place it in front of you on the table, it smells like peppermint. "Thank you."

"Can't have you dehydrated again, can we," he says in that raspy voice of his. You can already taste the mint on your tongue. "The ladies are a little concerned due to your self-chosen solitude," he informs you.

You feel your face contort at his words. Leaning forward and flicking a gaze over your shoulder, the only one you can fully see is Garcia. At your movement, her head jerks in your direction for only a heartbeat, before she laughs and nods, being her bubbly self, while she rubs Morgan's arm affectionately. JJ, previously sitting at the window, has taken the aisle seat now, and you meet her eyes for a second. She gives a quiet encouraging smile, before something Prentiss says makes her look up to her.

She listens, her mouth opens and she puts a hand to her chest. You lip-reading skills perceive something along the lines of 'so delicious', and if this is true, they probably talk about the new Greek restaurant Emily recommended a few weeks ago.

It doesn't need in-your-face stares or depressing silence to show their worries. It doesn't need more than a cup of tea to let you know they care, either.

It wasn't your intention to bother someone. "I don't… I just – "

Rossi holds up a hand and shakes his head nonchalantly. "It's okay," he says, "no need to explain. I understand that you might want to sort out certain things. A lot happened. I only wanted you to know that you don't need to seal yourself off from your team."

"I know," you answer (you really do know that). "I just need to… to think about a few things." Your hands grip the mug in front of you, the heat burning in your palms.

"I figured that much," Rossi says. "I think we've worked long enough together for me to know that you tend to analyze things from every possible angle. Nothing wrong with that. Just don't go overthinking this… whatever is on your mind. Sometimes, the first thought is the right one." He raises his mug to you and walks back to the others, leaving you somewhat speechless.

Rossi couldn't possibly have been talking about what you think he could have been talking about. Right? He couldn't have meant it that way.

You stare intently at your cup of tea, refusing to admit that Rossi or someone might know what is going on. You don't even really know what is going on right now. So, how could anyone else know it, if you (who is affected by this above all) don't even have a clue?

Focus, Spencer. You need to concentrate. Rossi can wait until later, but in about two hours you are going to land and then everyone is going to go home. Morgan and you will part ways and when you meet for work again in a few days… no, you need to come up with a solution before that.

You peek at your left wrist where your watch is supposed to be. But your sleeve is empty. You have worn it when you and Morgan entered Barnes' house. Great. So much for that.

Turning your head, you look out of the window to watch the sun go down and the sky go up in flames.

It is hard to decide where to go from here. Time and again you have had the feeling that whatever this is between you and Morgan cannot be described as mere friendliness or camaraderie. Sometimes you were under the impression that he actually really flirted with you. Often enough you thought that, maybe, he was just playing. But even more often there was this stupid little voice inside you, whispering, 'Maybe he's not.'

So there was no harm in proceeding like that for a while.

But now you have crossed the line, gone way too far and then some. You have expressed mutual attraction, you have kissed. Morgan asked you to _marry_ him and you said yes. This is not just flirting anymore.

Stretching out your left leg, the movement is a bit shaky because you try to avoid the familiar pain. You don't know what awoke this injury again, it bugs you ever since Barnes got you. Perhaps you fell kind of awkwardly when he knocked you out.

You didn't think it would matter anymore, to be honest. Really, you didn't. There was a moment back then where you didn't think you would make it this time. You have accepted that this time you have pushed your luck too far.

You remember thinking that your mother would have been sad. You felt sorry for not visiting her once more and for leaving her alone for good, just because you went overboard (again). Your team would have been sad as well. And you yourself were miserable, too, of course, and you felt horrible. But you were accepting and you were with Morgan, and your death was about to be more peaceful than you could have ever imagined it.

Maybe this is why he did it. Maybe this is why Morgan responded to you the way he did.

_– still have to ask you to marry me, it just –_

To make it easier for you.

A shadow passes by, merely a black spot you notice from the corner of your eye. It is Emily (or her legs, to be more precisely). Her hand holds something and she seems to try to cover it as she takes the seat across from you at the same time. She doesn't need to worry. You are so far gone you barely pay any attention.

"Hey, Reid," she says, just like she did back then, and shifts to get comfortable. Her knee nudges yours and you move away instinctively. You are unable to control your micro expressions (it doesn't even occur to you that you have to), before you look at her. The smile falls from her lips and you can see in her features how much despair your own face holds. Instinctively, she reaches for your hand but doesn't touch. "What's wrong?" she asks, startled, and her eyes are huge with concern.

It is incomparably more difficult to convince someone of something _after _they got a look past your defense, even more so when that someone knows you like Emily does. You blink, shaking your head slightly to come back to your senses, and stretching your fingers is all it would take to touch hers.

"Nothing's wrong," you say finally and look up to her, determined to hold her gaze. You have nothing to hide, and you couldn't really, either. It is always hard to deal with when a profiler profiles another profiler.

"You sure?" she asks and her eyes narrow, before a corner of her mouth curls into an understanding smile. "We don't have to worry about you, right?"

You notice the tiny hint of hope in her tone, and it makes your answer easier and more necessary. "Of course not, I'm fine," you say and it is annoying, and you don't know if it is true anymore. You should be fine because you are here, after all, but somehow… somehow you don't feel all that fine right now.

Prentiss is silent for a few seconds and then reaches in her lap to get whatever it is she was bringing with her. "Look what I found at the gift shop next to our hotel," she announces, her smile brighter now, and what she places in front of you is a book. A black cover greets you, with two pale hands on it that hold a red apple as if offering it.

Your eyes scan the title and recognize it immediately, and as you stifle a laugh Emily joins in. Your arms rest on the table, the book lies in between them and your fingers almost, almost touch Prentiss.

"JJ said you didn't even know what it is so I thought, maybe you'd want to spare a few minutes to catch up on some… pop-cultural influences," she says, jerking her chin towards the book.

You never thought this would actually come back to haunt you but apparently you were wrong. Since then it crossed your path a few times or at least you have noticed it on a more regular level than before, but still not to such an extend that you really would know what all this hype you have witnessed by now is about.

"Is it good?" you ask grinning, because this is something you did not expect.

"It's… easy, I guess. The concept's simple and the kids love it. Some kids love it," she corrects herself. "Yeah, I guess there are enough who like this."

"Do you like it?" you ask.

"Uhm… to be honest, I still prefer Vonnegut. And _the __Godfather_. And pretty much everything over this," she laughs. It sounds happy and blithe but she interrupts herself yet again as she seems to hear the lingering sound of her words and notices what they must probably make you think – a very strange thing that she gives something away as a present she doesn't even like herself, right? "I didn't mean… what I meant was, I thought you might – "

"I know, and thank you," you interrupt her this time, closing your arms in a loose circle around the book. "I appreciate the gesture, very much. I'm thrilled."

Her eyes are small slits and her mouth pulls to the side in a mixture of pursing her lips and smiling. You hold her gaze steadily and her smile gets more evident and her mouth more crinkled. "You're welcome then," she says and gives in to the laugh that bubbles under the surface.

You both look down at the table again and Emily's wandering eyes find your wrist. Curious fingertips reach out and spread your sleeve a bit to take a look under it at the raw marks. The concern finds its way back in full force on her side, and you pull away and cover it with your other hand, feeling uncomfortably exposed.

"Actually, Reid…"

Emily grabs both your hands and ignores how you are reluctant at first, curling her fingers around yours and holding on. "Actually, I wanted to tell you something," she says, and her voice drops in a confidential (almost secretive) way. Silently, you wait for her to continue. "I wanted you to know that we're all on your side. So you don't have to worry, alright?"

Garcia said something similar and Rossi maybe, too, and although you are afraid you know what they mean, you don't dare to let it sink in.

"JJ and Garcia agree with me, and I haven't talked to Rossi or Hotch, okay, but…" She exhales and her grip tightens. "Listen, we're a team. We stick together, right? Whether it's something good or not so good, and this – " she smiles against her will " – this is fantastic. So I, you know, we all got your back. So don't let Strauss or anyone spoil this, okay?"

Hold on a second. You shake your head again in confusion, in denial even. "Wha-… how do you – " Stop, Spencer, don't start to prattle away now. But how can she know? And what _does_ she know?

Her thumb moves across the back of your hand and over the bruise left by the needle. She seems to guess your unspoken questions immediately and there is an odd expression of apprehension crossing her features. "Reid," she says slowly, "what… exactly do you remember from when we found you guys?"

'When we found you'… right. Right.

Now that you think about it, you remember hearing Prentiss' voice from far away, muffled and as if through water. An echo of Rossi bellowing something accompanies it. And in the fogginess that has been your vision you have seen Hotch's face, dogged and desperate staring down at you. They have all been there, it seems, even though you have been right at Morgan's side.

You have been dying with Morgan kissing you and they have found you. They have seen you. They know.

"E-emily," you choke out, and you want to pull away because suddenly, she is so much too close and you need room and distance and think of something to –

"Reid…"

– to make things normal again.

"Reid," Emily says urgently. She doesn't let go of you, dragging your hands back in her direction again. "Like I said, everything's alright. We're all on your side and we won't let anybody, _anybody_ – "

"Emily, it's not that easy," you interrupt her quietly, all but whispering because you imagine the people in your back leaning further in to you.

"It's not?" she asks just as quietly.

"No, I – " You lick your lips, your gaze dropping. "I, it's hard to explain, I don't know."

"Huh." She leans back a little and her grip loosens. You could shake her off now easily, but you don't do it. You are gnawing at the inside of your lip and her eyebrows are raised in honest confusion. "I thought it's pretty simple, and you think it's not? Why?" Something behind you attracts Prentiss' attention and you can only guess what she sees. You try to swallow the lump in your throat. "I'm sorry," she says, then. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I just… everything will be fine. I know it will. So don't worry, okay?"

You nod, simply to put her mind at rest. She knows there is not much talking to do for her anymore, you shut down visibly. With a last squeeze of your hands, she stands up and leaves, touching your arm as she passes you. Then she is gone.

The tea is cooler now and you take a sip. Your mouth and your throat feel dry and it is getting darker by the minute outside. Eventually, the lights are switched on around you. Time is running out and thoughts are running circles in your head. Behind you, your team is chattering away and it sounds so agonizingly normal, even though it is all but normal.

Because they know. Most of them have seen it and all of them know.

And the worst part is, maybe they don't, after all.

Morgan is a caring guy, you know that since day one where he demanded to kick you out of the team – because for him, you were way too young to see the horrors that inevitably come with the job. In retrospective, you know that he wanted to protect you, as he is trying ever since.

If it is in his power to make people around him feel better, he is going to do it. After your little slip-up, maybe he thought it is the least he could do. Maybe he thought (just like you did) that you wouldn't make it this time. So maybe, he had nothing to lose by playing along. But can someone really be that considerate? That calculating? It was a situation filled to the brim with stress, both emotionally and physically.

Whatever good intentions he might have had, there is a limit to everything. How concentrated could he have been as breathing was no longer possible?

Your lips are parted and you take deep slow breathes through your mouth. Colorful sparks cloud your vision and you close your eyes and eventually, they fade. Where your headache has been, a feeling of dizziness is sitting now.

He looked so sincere.

It was easy to believe him and you did, because it was too good to be true and you didn't have time to doubt. On the edge of everything and at the heart of bittersweet finality, you had him. For a moment there, he was yours and you were his and you had him.

Your lids twitch rapidly as you search the darkness for what you have seen back then. Suddenly, heat starts to prickle on your cheeks, crawling slowly up your arms. Your breathing gets deeper and faster and your wrists start to burn. Your palms sting. Your heart races, drumming in your ears.

"Hey."

A hand lands on your shoulder, heavy and warm and familiar, and shakes you back into reality. Your eyes flutter open and the heat turns icy cold, disappearing in a shiver running down your spine.

You exhale, and Morgan's eyes already await you, curiosity and concern plain evident. His hand is so close to your neck, his thumb pressed into the hollow between your shoulder and your collarbone. You loosen your fists, almost reaching out for him but thinking better of it before you make a fool of yourself, and the sting vanishes as your blunt nails come off your palms.

He doesn't ask if you are okay and you don't have to answer that you are fine, and you are glad because you are not. You are not fine.

"Don't do that to yourself," is all he says.

"I try," you reply. You all know very well that it takes time to get things like that out of your system. "I'll be alright."

"I know," he says and a tiny smile is hiding on his lips.

"You've got to be kidding me, are you for real?" JJ says behind you, sounding almost offended. "Everyone knows Marlon Brando is _the_ 'Godfather', there's no one else."

"Except Al Pacino, you know, the junior-Godfather," Garcia adds matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, but still, Brando's the Original," JJ insists.

"I know, I'm just saying," Prentiss defends herself and you can picture her with one hand slightly raised, as refusing as JJ to the whole idea.

Morgan peered in their direction, a smirk growing with every word uttered, and now he shakes his head at you. "What have you done, Pretty Boy," he mumbles, obviously entertained, and you pull your lips in your mouth a little to hide your own smile. You don't think it is appropriate for how you feel at the moment. His hand on you shifts and now it is all but cupping your nape, the touch barely there. "I think, you and I need to talk, about… some things," he says in a more serious tone, then.

You nod, because you know that – clearly you need to. He seems relieved as you agree without hesitation. That is kind of surprising.

"Who did they want originally?" Emily asks, probably addressing Morgan if you hear correctly. "Cary Grant?"

He looks at you, amusedly seeking help. "Cary Grant?" he asks in a low voice, but you recognize the friendly teasing immediately.

"Sir Laurence Olivier," you correct. The warm spot beneath his hand is slowly spreading out.

Morgan nods and the smile falters, although something close to affection remains in his features. "Don't run off, please," he murmurs and it makes you think that perhaps, he might be just as nervous as you are. His fingers glide across your cardigan as he pulls his arm back. "It was Sir Laurence Olivier," he announces, walking back to his seat, and Garcia's voice sweetly commands him to "Sit down, handsome."

"Ah," JJ hums, "well, good thing they chose Brando in the end."

"Yeah and even better that we have our own _Godfather_ right here," Penelope agrees and everyone snickers, even you chuckle. Rossi snarls a fake "Ha ha," before it turns honest and he joins in.

Penelope says something about how you cut quite a dash as _la_ FBI _familia_ ("Just imagine what we could _do_!"), and somehow this does the trick and they are all more or less engaged in some sort of conversation about this or something else.

Your two and a half hour period of grace is up, way too soon. Although, you feel a little calmer now since you know Morgan seeks talks with you. You are still nervous, but in a different way. The lights of Virginia appear beneath you, a sight you thought you would never be able to enjoy again. As everyone starts to pack their things, you shove the unread book in front of you into your satchel and after that, you simply wait for the jet to land, determined not to think about anything.

The conditions might not be the very best right now with the team and everything. But you are home.

The landing itself is slightly bumpy and sends a jolt through your knee, but that is about it. Coming to a standstill is smooth as ever and you hear the rustling of your team getting to their feet and the sound of bags being shouldered.

"Enjoy your weekend, everybody," Hotch says, "you deserve it."

"It's most definitely appreciated," Garcia sighs. "My bubble bath is waiting for me. And my gorgeous hunk of a techie boyfriend."

"Yeah? Well, the only thing I need to wait for me tonight is my own bed with my own pillow and my own blankets," Prentiss says, bag hanging over her shoulder. "I always wanted to try this thing everyone's talking about. You know, sleeping? Seems to be pretty popular."

They share a quiet sympathetic laugh and you keep your face down while they are blocking the aisle, desperately wanting to go home but not quite ready to part yet. Now and then you can feel a pair of eyes grazing you but you don't look anyone in the face.

"Let's get going, my lovelies," Penelope chirps and finally, they start to head off and outside. You are more than willing to follow. You try to avoid touching Hotch as you pass him by, more than necessary, and you almost make it off to firm ground – but Hotch has to call out for you.

"Reid, can I talk to you?" he asks, and maybe he doesn't _call _after all, because it is too quiet to actually be considered calling.

The others don't take notice and lead the way without you to follow them. Staying behind, you turn around to face Hotch, trying too hard to appear calm. You lick your lips, adjusting the strap across your chest. Hotch waits until the team is out of earshot and you press the tip of your tongue against the left corner of your mouth.

He gets straight to the point. "Reid, I think, maybe you should take a few days off and take your time to recover, after – "

"Hotch, I'd… rather not," you say. "I don't need that, I'm fine, I don't need time to recover."

"You know I can't have you in the field, neither you nor Morgan, if you can't handle the job." Of course you know that, but you don't want to give in. You can be stubborn. Hotch knows that, too. "I will have to pull you off the case if it's too much for you."

You nod. No surprise. But paperwork is a thing easy enough for you to do, and if you don't get a new case first thing on Monday morning, you will be just fine. After a moment of silence you try an awkward smile. "Okay, then… have a good weekend," you say, the slightest tone of uncertainty wavering in your voice.

"Reid," he holds you back. "One more thing."

Shifting your weight from one food to the other, you take a deep breath, lifting your head, straighten your back. Somehow, you have the feeling _this_ is the actual reason he kept you from leaving.

Hotch blinks slowly and tilts his head the tiniest bit to the side, barely visible, and it is a strange mixture of Unit Chief/SSA Aaron Hotchner and Hotch. "I won't tell you what to do," he finally says. "And to whatever decision you may come, just make sure you won't regret it. In any case. As long as it's not interfering with work, I don't know anything about it. And as long as I don't know anything about it you can consider me on your side."

"Uh…" What is he saying? That he knows and that he is okay with it?

"Are we clear?" he asks and you know in this instant that he _is_ saying that.

Actually, it doesn't change anything to know your boss is with you on this, but it lifts a weight of which you didn't even knew it could be lifted by the knowledge that not only your team but your boss as well are okay with… this.

You nod again. "Yes," you say, "of course, yes."

"Fix this," he orders shortly. "I can't have my agents awkward around each other."

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and not a heartbeat later he hands your wristwatch to you. You have no idea where he might have found it, for your Unsub didn't appear to take this kind of trophies with him. Nevertheless, you take it from Hotch and put it on, the sleeve of your cardigan separating the metal from your skin. Grazing the crystal with your fingertips, you lift your gaze and smile at Hotch, and for the first time since the hospital, he smiles back.

"I see you on Monday," he says.

Mumbling a goodbye yourself, you take your leave now, turning around just in time to see Garcia kissing Morgan's cheek. Then, she and everyone around her start to head home. Morgan stays behind, glancing around, and as his eyes find you, you take teetering steps towards him.

* * *

><p>Well... we made a little progression here, right?<p>

It was kinda important to me to show the team's consensus about this matter. It's not a secret anymore (if it ever was) and they all know it's not secret - maybe that's even more important. And since it's such a confusing situation for our boys and I like to think of the BAU as kind of a family and all, I thought it would help them a little to know that their unity won't be endangered because of this. I'm well aware that one could argue about the necessity of this part (been there, done that), but in my book it kind of is.

The last part is on its way and then we'll finally know how they decide to handle their little dilemma. So, stay tuned, if you're interested, and let me know what you think. :)

Hope to see you soon!

Bluey


	5. And I'd be so good to you

He waits until you catch up with him, before you head for his car, side by side, in silent agreement.

Putting your bags in the trunk again, you take your seats in the front. As Morgan starts the motor, the radio automatically starts to play low music. He pulls out on the street to the sound of… you don't really know what it is, it sounds very smooth, very much like Morgan, and you don't mind.

"Where are we going?" you ask, while the first red light flashes in front of you.

"Dunno, your place?" He looks at you briefly and it sounds like a question but it is not and you know it as soon as he looks away again.

Being the profiler you are, you know quite well how to interpret this. A restaurant, a bar, even a bench at the park would have been a neutral place without any advantages for either of you. But going at someone's place, doing the talk in his or your home, this means that someone will be in control of the situation. And if he offers you this, if he tries to make you feel more comfortable, it leads to only one conclusion.

He has already decided for himself.

"How's your leg?" Morgan asks suddenly.

Your fingers are gripping your knee unconsciously, loosening your hold as he speaks. "It's… no, it's nothing," you say. "I'll get some ice when I'm home, it's gonna be alright."

"Okay." He doesn't sound convinced. Eying the streets, he rolls his shoulders, and you feel how tense your own muscles are. "Uh, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure," you answer, wondering what he could possibly want now.

"Could you _not _start the conversation in your head already and wait for it until we're home?" he asks, tilting his head to look at you from the side for the briefest instant. "I trust your genius and all, really, but I'd still like to speak for myself."

You don't reply anything to that, shifting in your seat and looking out of the window. It is dark and the streetlights pour dirty orange and yellow on to the pavements. You can see your pale reflection in the pane.

You cannot decide whether the way to your apartment building is too long or too short, and before you can make up your mind, you are already out of the car with your bags and on your way, heading for the front door. Morgan doesn't comment as you find it unlocked. In fact, neither of you say a word until the door closes behind you and you are in the safety of your home.

It is so quiet around you.

"Uh, make yourself at home, please," you say, gesturing in the direction of the living room. Morgan shakes off his jacket and simply puts it over the back of your couch as he follows you, his eyes never really leaving you. This is kind of unnerving. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee, maybe? Or tea? I could, uhm…" You are not really prepared for visitors.

"Coffee sounds good," Morgan answers.

"Okay." You left your Go Bag next to the door and put your messenger bag on the couch now, getting sort of uncomfortably close to Morgan because he doesn't move a bit, almost provoking.

After the coffee is made and both of you have a steaming cup in front of you, you sit down at the counter across from each other. A normal small dining table would have been enough for you, but the kitchen is too small for that, so you have to put up with a counter and chairs that look way too much like bar stools.

Although, that should be the least of your worries. Because how do you broach the topic at hand now?

Morgan looks rather relaxed, his thumb grazing the edge of his cup. It is nerve-wracking, to say the least. "You want to get straight to the point or…" Or pussyfoot around for another while. He doesn't say the last part, his voice trailing off mid-sentence, and maybe, it is just in your head.

"Straight to the point," you say. You are too tired for beating around the bush and honestly, it is all you have been doing for the past… well, years, maybe.

"I think it's safe to say that we're both pretty damn aware of what happened, right? Correct me, if I'm wrong." It appears that you are and to claim anything else would be a lie. You shake your head, no need to correct him. "Yeah. And the question's now… what we're gonna do about it. Right?"

Licking your lips, you sip your coffee and it tastes almost too sweet, even for you.

No matter how you look at it, there is no pleasant way to do this, so just get over with it. "Okay, listen," you say and put your mug down. But it is unexpectedly difficult to meet Morgan's eyes when he is all composed like that, as if this here wouldn't mean anything to him. "What happened in that basement, I mean, you know how this works. It was extremely stressful on so many levels, we couldn't breathe, we were dehydrated and panicked, there was adrenaline, endorphin, chemically and psychologically, this whole – "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there, hold it." Morgan raises his hand and his brows are furrowed in irritation. For at least half a minute he simply stares at you, disbelieving. "So, you're s-" He gives a laugh but it sounds unamused. "What are you saying, exactly?"

"I'm not saying anything, I just want to make clear that nobody could hold it against us," you clarify. But of course you know it is not per se that easy.

"Hold it against us? Hold _what_ against us?" Until a few moments ago he acted composed to no end, and now he seems to have trouble in figuring you out. "Reid, man, this is nobody's business but ours."

"I know. I know, but I mean, if there's talking or anything – "

"_Talking_?" Morgan's voice echoes loudly in your kitchen. "Are you kiddin' me? You're talkin' about Hotch and Prentiss here, man, nobody but the team knows. And you think they're gonna broadcast it?"

"I'm not saying that," you fight back. Of course you don't think that, you didn't mean it that way. "I was trying to explain that it's perfectly normal to seek comfort in each other's presence in such a situation. There are many basic approaches to explore this phenomenon, in philosophy and psychology and sociology and, and there are studies that show – "

"_No_ studies," he interrupts you emphatically, a little to forcefully even. "We're no fucking statistics, Reid."

"No, no no, but listen, studies have shown that even if you _could_ control yourself in situations like that, where a person for example seeks solace or affection or whatever, if a person sends some kind of signal, the other one is likely respond positive in most of these cases." Your voice wavers at the last words and you feel your Adam's apple bob.

Morgan looks at you with narrow eyes and contemplates what you have just said. There is a minute of unbearable silence, before he shifts on his stool and leans forward, arms crossed on top of the counter. "So," he begins slowly, "you've been polite to me when I kissed you and asked you to marry me?"

"Wh- no!" You huff helplessly as he doesn't understand. He doesn't get it. "No, I'm not talking about – "

"Or was it pity?" he asks, sounding almost aloof now.

"_What_?" You stare at him blankly, your mouth hanging open, and as you become aware of it, you snap it shut and swallow hard. "Can't you just _listen_ to what I'm saying?" you ask, sounding way too desperate, way too high-pitched.

"I _am_ listening, and all I'm hearing is statistics, is remorse, is that you would've felt guilty if you denied me, so you didn't." It gets louder by the second in your apartment.

"How could I have denied you, _I _was the one who initialized it in the first place!"

"Then what's the fucking problem?" he shouts at you, and all of a sudden the silence from before is back and feels like cotton in your ears. Your body instinctively stiffened as he raised his voice. You stare at each other, both surprised how fast you got carried away. Morgan is the first one to recollect. "Sorry," he mumbles and wipes his hand across his bald head. "Really, I don't… I mean, what are you trying to do here, Kid?"

"I'm trying to give you an easy out," you answer honestly. Wasn't it obvious?

The way he raises his eyebrows makes you think that it actually wasn't. "I don't want an _easy_ out," he says calmly. "I don't want an out, period. You know, I don't know if you noticed but I don't run around and ask people randomly to marry me."

Your lips twitch in an unwilling smile and your gaze drops on the table. You have never even once thought he would do that. He likes to flirt and he is charming, but he is honest as well. He always plays fair.

"Look," he says and you nod shortly to signal that you are listening. "No, look. Look at me."

_Look at me. Listen to me. You listen?_

You have heard that already, hours and hours before, and like that time it is not hard to comply with it. "Tell me one thing. Did you mean what you were saying down there or not?"

You did. You really did. Probably, you wouldn't have done it the way you did under normal circumstances, but that doesn't mean you were lying. Taking a deep breath, you feel slightly feverish, cheeks warm and eyes dry. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't," you say quietly, trying to keep in mind that this is Morgan. He deserves honesty.

"Me neither," is all he replies.

Do you realize that you are still dancing? Not around each other but around all this is and could be. "What does this make us?" you ask him.

You don't miss how he blinks one time too slowly at the use of you and him in one word. "What do you want it to be?" he asks back.

The words leave your mouth before you can think better of them. "I wouldn't want to hide something like this," you admit bluntly. You have hidden so much already, for so long. "And I never wanted to be a secret, you know, I always was – "

"You won't," he interrupts you, astonished, as if he couldn't quite believe you would even think something like that.

It makes you laugh a little because everything seems to be so easy for him. The coffee grows cold against your fingertips but you cannot bring yourself to take another sip. Morgan hasn't touched his mug yet. He notices how you study his empty hands, and he grabs his coffee and raises it to his lips. Your eyes stay there too long, even after the porcelain has left.

"Do you have any idea how risky this would be?" You look at your hands and at his hands and at the space between them. "You know how it was with JJ and Will, you know how long she thought we don't know, even though all of us did. This would leak out eventually."

"Sorry to pop your bubble but it already did," he murmurs into his mug before he takes another sip.

You exhale and shake your head. This is not about the team – it is clear that they are not about to object to it. Whatever this is. You don't know, but everyone else does seemingly and this is more than vexing. But apart from this, you are two men working in law enforcement. This is dangerous. There is prejudice everywhere.

"Sooner or later there would be talk," you say. "And you know it doesn't matter whether it's true or not, this is always a damage to reputation."

He takes your words in as if they would take him by surprise. "You're fighting me off 'cause you're afraid of some rumors to dent your image?" he inquires.

Now he is getting unfair, and you can feel your face harden. "Well, it's not _my_ reputation I'm worried about here," you all but snarl. You are used to people talking about you behind your back – it comes with being a child prodigy, with earning your first degree at the age of seventeen, with working for the FBI as the youngest agent in history.

Morgan towers in front of you, calm and composed again and full of confidence. "You really think I care about people gossiping?" he asks and you can hear in his voice that you hurt him a little with this unspoken insinuation you didn't even had in mind. This wasn't your intention, you only meant well, wanting to protect him from what you know too well yourself.

Something happens in your face and you want to turn away, but he reaches out for you, not touching but keeping you in place nevertheless. "Don't back off," he pleads, lowering his head to meet your gaze. "I don't care, okay? There's always been talk and there always will be. So what? This is nothing new, and I'm too old and not willing to let this get in my way."

He is the son of a Caucasian mother and an afro-American father. Not black enough to be black, but certainly not white either. He has learned to gain acceptance but he is no stranger to prejudice.

But to hear him actually say out loud that he is willing to risk this for you, with you… you don't know why it makes your eyes sting. Back there, you wanted to cry so desperately because of something you would never have, and now he offers it again, and something inside you aches because you don't know why you cannot bring yourself to accept it.

"Okay, you know what?" He shoves his coffee aside and puts his hands on the counter, the way he always does when he interrogates an Unsub and everyone knows they have no chance but to confess. When he is absolutely sure of himself. "I didn't think I could make myself any clearer than I previously did by asking you to marry me, but let me try. To avoid any misunderstandings here."

Your throat feels tight and your hands are clammy. He makes it so hard for you to stay rational.

"I. Meant. Everything I said down there."

Maybe you should have turned the radio on. It made the car drive bearable. This silence here, only overshadowed by his words or yours is too much like in that basement and you are not sure what you can say anymore.

"I didn't forget anything, I didn't say it to do you a favor or whatever you think has been my intention," he clarifies. He knows you so well, Spencer. "Granted, I might have approached the whole situation a little different, if the circumstances wouldn't have been what they were. But that doesn't mean anything, alright?"

It doesn't mean anything to you either. Why don't you give in already?

"I meant every word I said, and the only reason I'm not telling you I love you is because I'm afraid it'd freak you the hell out."

Your breathing gets shallow and the coffee creates a stir in your mug, tiny little waves that lick the white porcelain. Morgan's finger close around your wrist and ease the storm, and his eyes are begging you to say something, anything. You blink and suddenly your lashes feel wet.

"What about – " Your voice cracks. "What," you try again, "what about the regulations? Fraternization is prohibited, we could… we could lose our jobs or be transferred to another team and – " And you cannot lose your job. You cannot lose the feel of making a difference in the world and you cannot lose your team.

Morgan's hand falls back on the counter and you immediately miss it. And like Ethan said, on more occasions than even you can count: _For a genius, that's just dumb_.

"Reid, you know the success rate for the BAU better than anybody, they can't just get rid of us."

"They could, if they wanted to use it as a warning to others," you reply shortly, refusing to meet his eyes. You cannot lose your team, they are the closest thing to family you have. And you cannot lose Morgan, either.

"_Warning_, man, do you even hear what you're saying? This is not a fucking crime!" He really seems to be a little bewildered.

"But we're still working for one of the most homophobic institutions in the United States!" Your raised voice doesn't impress him. One of his hands lies on the counter, next to his mug, the other one rests somewhere on his thigh. He completely opens up to you, so much that it hurts to look at it.

"Is there a point somewhere in your argumentation?" he asks coolly. "'Cause if there is, I have to admit you're damn good at hiding it. What?" He jerks his chin provokingly, as you raise your face at him, unable to prevent your glare. "What d'you wanna hear from me? Tell me, 'cause at this point, I don't have the foggiest what I can do to convince you anymore. I thought we were already past this, y'know, and then you come and throw all that bullshit in my face. What am I supposed to do? You already _said_ yes, remember? I asked you and you said yes, man, we _are _already married. Is this nothing to you?"

You run your fingers through your hair, your palms pressed to your forehead. "We need to think this through, this is not – "

"But we don't need to come up with every answer tonight!," he contradicts, and it is getting thin. You are running circles around each other, getting more and more to the point were the both of you will be at a loss for what else to say.

Too easy for him, too hard for you – why don't you meet halfway? It would be so simple.

"Do you really want to risk all this?" your hushed voice rings through the kitchen.

"For this?" His voice is almost challenging. 'For this' is what he says, but 'for you' is what you hear. It will be risky in some way or other, you know that, and you lift your face and you can see that yes, he is willing to risk this. Whatever it might be, whatever it takes.

"What are we doing here?" you whine into your hands, your lashed getting wet against your will.

You are willing to risk it, too. Why is it that you cannot accept his decision if it is so much like your own? Does it really take an Unsub threatening your life for this to work?

"We're waisting time," Morgan states off-handedly. "We're always waisting time." A breathed laugh. "We're fucking geniuses when it comes to this."

Scrubbing your face with your knuckles, you press your middle fingers to the inner corners of your eyes, and you shake your head and you nod because he is right and because you are tired and because you don't know what to do anymore.

In a kneejerk reaction you slide from your stool, knocking off your mug from the counter as you go. A dull thud as it hits the floor without breaking and three steps later you have reached Morgan. He turns with your every move, spreading his legs so you can stand between them, anticipating. You can see in his eyes that he knows what is to come, he awaits it, he hopes so much for it.

And before you can reconsider, before you can backpedal, you let your body move on its own, your hands cup the back of his head and you pull him close.

So easy.

You wouldn't even call this a kiss. You press your lips desperately to his, your thumbs lying in the soft hollows behind his ears, and you need to feel that it doesn't take you dying to make this work. Because it doesn't. His mouth is warm and firm beneath yours, you don't even move and it should be silly. But it works.

As you pull away slightly he wants to follow. Just at first and he stops almost immediately. The stool he sits on makes him shorter than you and he has to look up at you. You cannot say who moves first as your lips meet again, he stretches and you bend forward, and it is more a kiss now. Your lips move against each other, one arm hugs your waist, pulling you close, the other snakes around your leg, pulling you even closer.

His chest touches your stomach, the angle is awkward. You rest your arms on his shoulders and Morgan raises with every heartbeat drumming in your ears.

It gets hot inside and out. You are melting, dripping with relief. He tastes like coffee and doesn't allow any distance, even though you try to put some between you, following every inch you draw back. The strain in your leg makes it ache and forces you to tear your lips away to change your stance.

Slowly, you take a step back, your arms gliding from his shoulders and his arms falling from your body, and you lower your head, gazing at your feet for you don't know what.

It is that moment, when your hair falls in your face like a curtain that separates you from Morgan and you are not quite sure how to proceed from here, that Morgan kind of takes over. He grabs your hip and suddenly, he is standing right in front of you, eye to eye for the first time, really looking at each other. He walks you backwards as his stool clatters to the ground, ear-splitting.

Three fast steps that make you stumble and your hands slide from his shoulders to his chest, and then your back hits your fridge. One hand is cupping the back of your head to soften the bump and Morgan's lips find yours again, and it is messy and hard and bruising with tongues and teeth and him pressing into you while you press back.

Your arms are trapped between you and him, the right one pressed across your chest, hand dangling useless next to your shoulder. But you can twist the other one and grab a fistful of his shirt.

Encouraging.

He pushes you up the cold surface in your back as your front is heated up by Morgan's warmth. He rocks into you and it rumbles all around you, clothes rustle, breathing is harsh and your heart drums in your ears, loud, so loud.

His fingers are tangled in the mess that is your hair, his thumb grazing your earlobe, and it is so gentle it makes you almost forget the ache in your leg. The kiss turns soft and sweet and knee-weakingly intense, and your eyes remain shut as he pulls away enough to let his breath barely reach your skin.

Sucking the edge of your lower lip between your teeth, rubbing the fabric you could get a hold of between your fingers, you indulge in the lingering taste of too sweet and too bitter coffee and Morgan himself. It paints the purest of smiles onto your face, contentment buzzing through your veins, because you were afraid it might not feel right but it does. Or at least, it certainly felt not wrong and moreover, it felt good, and for now, this is enough.

But this moment of peace is over far too soon. Your brows twitch and furrow, and you force your eyes open, watching his smile vanishing with your own.

"What happens when I let go of you?" you ask, your voice scarcely above a whisper.

He senses the agitation that starts to kick in again, the arm that snuck around your waist gripping you tighter. You don't stop him, you go along with it volitionally.

"Nothing," he says quietly as if stating the obvious. "Nothing's gonna happen. Nothing's gonna change." And it almost sounds like _I already do love you_.

Because above all, this is still you and him, Reid and Morgan, and nothing is going to change that. After times and times of teasing, of stressing, of denying – maybe this is really how it is supposed to be. You answer the kiss he presses to your lips, almost tentative now, and you let go of his shirt to put your hand at the base of his neck, not demanding, not longing but simply…_ be_longing.

As his forehead touches yours, your arms adjust to hold him just like he holds you, and you breathe into each other and for the first time it really feels like breathing again.

"I want things to change," you say. And it sounds a little bit like _I do love you, too_. It should be so stupid, leaning against your fridge with Morgan of all people, but you want it. You want the life he said you could have and you can see that he wants it, too.

"'f it's not you," he murmues, eyes locked to yours, "if it's not working with you, it's not working with anybody."

_Tell me that you understand that, Reid. Tell me that you understand that this is the real thing. Tell me that you realize that is has to be you. _

And maybe this is just how it is. Perhaps things can really be that simple. It has to be you just like it has to be him.

_**~ Finis ~**_

* * *

><p><em><strong><strong>_Done, it's done! Yay!

A little cheesy again, I guess, but I think it kinda clarifies pretty much which direction they would take now. Finally, if I may say so. I think I'll leave it at that, so the "Breathing"-part is over now. By now, I'm working on something different again which already became a little more than I previously thought and intended. But I kind of like it and maybe you're gonna like it, too, once it's up here.

Well, so much for that, anyway. Maybe you want to let me know what you think about our pretty little lovebirds and their sort of happy end 'till whatever may come next. I'd really appreciate that, you know that by now. And perhaps we'll see each other in the story. :)

Bluey

P.S.: Oh, and by the way... can anyone guess from which song I borrowed the lyrics for the chapter headlines? It's not important for the story, actually, I just like the song and the band in general. See you next time!


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